


𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

by stopthat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Attempt at Humor, Case Fic, Coming Out, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, John is a Saint, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Awkward Restaurant Scene, Nobody Punches Anybody, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Self-Doubt, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-11-15 10:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 72,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopthat/pseuds/stopthat
Summary: Sherlock has just returned from the dead, but in this timeline Mycroft suggests he track John downbeforehis dinner with Mary.  This is the story of their reunion and the twenty days that follow, told from Sherlock's point of view.▾"John," I say.  It comes out as a rasp.  Betrayed by my own voice.  Hateful.  I can hear that his breaths are coming as fast as mine are.  The moment is charged, and I'm silently flailing.  Unfamiliar territory.  Hard to believe this is happening.  Must be much worse for him—I'm dead, after all.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This story is now complete! I started writing it on a whim, feeling like I barely had a choice in the matter. The words have poured out and gone in directions I never planned and didn't even know I had in me. It's also the first thing I've written since high school (a decade ago) and has been a huge learning experience. I have a lot of love for the show, the books, these characters—and it was a lot of fun to get inside Sherlock's complicated head.
> 
> ▾
> 
> Dialogue lifted from the show is used to set the scene at the beginning. It's brief, and the rest is my own. I don't profit off of this in any way, and don't own these characters, etc. etc.
> 
> ▾
> 
> [randomfandoms7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomfandoms7/pseuds/randomfandoms7) is working on translating this story into Spanish. Super thanks to them, and you can find it [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851095/chapters/52149124)
> 
> Input is appreciated. Comments are treasured. Thank you for reading!
> 
>   
  


"And what about John Watson?"

"John?"

"Mm. Have you seen him?"

"Oh yes, we meet up every Friday for Fish & Chips." Big brother is charming as ever. I’m handed a file. Surveillance photos. Moustache? My god, John. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course. We haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him."

"No. Well we'll have to get rid of that."

"We?"

"He looks ancient. I can't be seen wandering around with an old man." I sigh. As if such a thing matters. As if I wouldn’t give anything to have him by my side again. I’ve already given everything. "I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted."

"You think so?" Doubt written all over his face.

"Mm. Pop into Baker Street, who knows--jump out of a cake." I smirk, but my heart's not in it. I don't know how else to act around my brother. This is what we do. Same as it ever was.

"Baker Street? He isn't there anymore." Oh. "Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

"What life? I've been away." More snark. A confidence I don’t feel. Something brewing in my gut, now. Dread? "Where's he going to be tonight?"

"How would I know?"

"You always know."

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road." A date then. "Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 St. Emilion. Though I prefer the 2001..." I'll interrupt. Spare him the company of whatever vapid female he's chosen to distract himself this week.

"I think maybe I'll just drop by."

"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome." A pointed look.

"No it isn't."

"It is, _ actually _." Mycroft pins me with his gaze. Studies my face, sees something there. Likely the staggering emotion I’ve long since forgotten how to suppress. He pauses, breathes in, out. "Sherlock..." He hesitates. Smooths imaginary wrinkles from his jacket. I narrow my eyes. What? What, Mycroft? "John can be found in Regent's Park after his shift at the clinic most days. Find him there. Find him sooner, rather than later, I think." I stare back at him. See a flicker of unease in his eyes. Unsure what to make of this, I nod slowly. Look around.

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"You know what." Belstaff in place, I flounce out the door. Places to go, people to see. London awaits.

✹

It's approaching three o’clock, so I head straight for the park. All traces of my old bravado have fallen away now that I've left my brother's vicinity. I feel stripped down and raw, and as I stride purposefully through London the streets feel unfamiliar beneath my feet. The roaring sounds of life are foreign and overwhelming. How did I get here? I will fix this soon enough, reacquaint myself with my city. But first things first.

I've learned to be honest with myself in my time away. Two years spent in immutable fear and crushing solitude will do that to a person. Even me. I was wholly unprepared for the situation I walked into, and the result was a series of drawn-out and painful reality checks. Gaping wounds on both my body and mind. In addition to that particular kind of agony, something snapped into place that day on the rooftop, kicking up a train of thought I could not hide from. Not anymore. 

I could no longer pretend I don't find meaning in things outside of the work, find comfort in people. It took a forced goodbye for it all to come crashing down on me. Too late, too late. It took reaching out to John from far above, tears streaming down my face, to shock me into accepting that he had become everything. Everything to me. Everything I thought I could never have, was incapable of having. Someone who saw me, someone to rely on. I've kept our friendship alive in my mind as I did what needed to be done to preserve his life. His steady voice keeping me grounded to reality, keeping me moving forward. Knowing he’s alive in the world allowed me to accept what I’d been forced to become: a ghost, an executioner, a whisper on the tongues of those Moriarty left behind. _ You were the most human human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told a lie _. Oh, John. You were right about me. Human after all. But I did tell a lie. 

The rest of my people stayed with me as well. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, Molly and Mycroft. Taking up residence in some neglected room of my mind palace, their voices calming the violent waves in my head. Reminding me of what's important, of why I jumped. How could I take on this impossible task if I hadn't something to return to, a community to protect? I'd discovered the value of sentiment, at last. But it was never meant to take so long.

✹

I arrive at Regent's Park and glance around. I know exactly where he'll be if he's here. A creature of habit, my John. He finds comfort in walking the same paths, covering the same ground. Day in and day out. Helps him think, he says. Structure. Familiarity. Was always so charmed by his idiot mind, so different from my own. Deceptively intelligent and often unpredictable. Driven by emotion, but rooted in practicality. Another thing I never thought I'd find: a perfect puzzle in human form: an enigma. Baffling me every step of the way.

I don't see John, so I walk for awhile. Buy a cup of tea. Walk some more. Toss the cup. I've spent these last years with one foot in my mind palace and the other barely straddling reality. Being here, being home, feels false. Surreal. As I walk, I listen to the John in my head narrate my surroundings. _ We chased down a man, just over there, who had killed his entire family. His wife, his sons. Slit their throats, do you remember? You were nearly stabbed. _ I remember, John, of course I do. I remember it all, every moment I spent with you. Just one of the innumerable times you saved me.

I've drifted over to a fountain, have been staring down into the rippling water, barely seeing it at all. Remembering why I'm here, I lift my head and scan the park once again. My gaze halts on a small bench, facing the water. A head of silver-gold hair. It's him, I know it is. My stomach has dropped entirely away, heart dissolved in my chest. Empty. I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Not sure I'll ever be. He'll be furious-- that I am sure of. His temper another fascinating facet of his persona. Hidden behind a soft facade, always spawned by emotion. Protectiveness toward me, disappointment in me. Rearing its ugly head when I least expected it. But I expect it now.

John is staring into a vast expanse of water, as I was a moment ago. Eyes cast out toward the boats on the lake. People going about their lives, unaware that I'm about to shatter his. Letting the days go by. He's about nine meters in front of me, sitting still and silent. I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder how he's spent these years. Has he thought of me, much? Has he clung to our connection, as I have? Likely not. To him, I am dead. Unreachable, in a rather permanent way. I am not incapable of empathy; threw out the notion of sociopathy long ago. And I've thought about how I'd feel if he'd been the one to leave this world. I'd be lost. Is he lost?

I realize I'm staring. Frozen in place. The dread has returned to my gut. Roiling and spreading and rooting me to the ground where I stand. He hasn't moved either. What's holding him in place? Can he feel my presence, as I feel his? No. Ridiculous. I'm dead. Well, there's nothing for it; here I go.

My legs propel me forward and I find myself sliding onto the bench, to his right. I leave a few feet between us, glance sideways, and wait. His eyes reluctantly leave the water as he looks over, annoyed that someone dare invade his space. I watch as the annoyance flickers, replaced swiftly by utter shock. His eyes widen, slowly, growing impossibly large on his ever-expressive face. His body turns toward me as if of its own accord, his mouth parting, his hands shooting up to hover over it as he gapes. We stare at each other. I watch as his mind frantically tries to accept what's in front of him. My heart has regrown and is threatening to beat a hole through my chest. My stomach has come back, only to drop away again, leaving me to feel like I'm falling. Falling fast. Panic creeping in. We stare and stare. He says nothing.

"John," I say. It comes out as a rasp. Betrayed by my own voice. Hateful. I can hear that his breaths are coming as fast as mine are. The moment is charged, and I'm silently flailing. Unfamiliar territory. Hard to believe this is happening. Must be much worse for him—I'm dead, after all. 

Before I can say anything of substance, he’s sliding toward me, hands shaking. Reaching out, he touches my face. Thumbs brushing over my cheekbones. Trembling fingers are at my temples, then slide back, behind my ears, down my neck, and stay there. I'm frozen in place again, watching as his eyes grow wet, tears spilling over, still staring into mine. Blue. His palms are cupping my neck as the pads of his fingers trace over my nape. Up into the short curls there, and back down again. Then on to my shoulders, my arms. He pauses, then pulls me in. Closer than we've ever been. He's breathing hard, sobbing now. Hands clutching my back, holding me tight. I feel the long gashes burn under the pressure of his hands over my coat. I don't mind. He doesn't know they're there; knows nothing of the whips and chains and rage and fear. I didn't expect this warmth. I thought there would be punches thrown, angry words, loud voices. I was prepared for that. Not for this. Not at all. After a long moment, my arms come up from where they've been lying helplessly at my sides. I hold on to him and try not to lose myself completely. My eyes begin to prickle and I let the tears fall. Relief. An overwhelming sense of it. We hold on for a long time. Melt slowly into each other, breaths slowing. His face pressed into my neck, fists in my coat. I've buried my face in his hair, eyes closed, breathing him in. Hands gliding up and down his back. _ John _. I've missed you.

He pulls away, slowly, his warm hands on my forearms now. Stares. He's doubting his own sense of reality. I don't know how to make this more real, John, for either of us.

"Tell me," he whispers. Hands sliding down to grasp mine. Laces our fingers together, tentatively. I squeeze. I tell him.

"John," I begin. It feels important, to say his name. "I'm sorry." He just continues to stare. I hope he can hear me. I hope I can get through. "He was going to kill you," I blurt it out quickly. It sounds more like a sob than coherent speech. I didn't prepare any words. I should have. "You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. He was going to kill you all unless I jumped." The words feel weak. They hold no weight here; too much time has passed. John’s eyes are wide, but he says nothing. I tell him about the snipers, Moriarty's final words, the way he shook my hand and then blew himself away. I tell him I spent all this time picking apart his bloody network. Tearing down the spider's web one strand at a time. I don't tell him where I've been. I don't tell him how I've changed. "I've missed you."

He's squeezing my hands so tight, I can hardly feel my fingers. "I can't believe this," his brow is furrowed, shaking his head, like he's confused. It is confusing. I don't know what to do now, John. "I've spent two years in mourning, Sherlock." His voice breaks on my name. I wonder how long it's been since he's said it aloud. "I don't know what to do with that grief, now."

I don't either. I've spent two years speaking to the memory of you, John. I don't know what to do now that you're in front of me. I don't say this. "I've missed you," is what I say, again.

Moments pass, the air around us growing tense and uncomfortable. We haven't looked away from each other this entire time, but we've run out of things to say. John lets go of my hands. He fidgets, looks down. I feel the panic return. What now? _ What next? _

"I should go," he says quietly, eyes still cast downward. "I have—I'm supposed to meet someone. I have a dinner. Reservations, you know."

"All right," I'm sinking. I don't want to part. I just got you back, John. _ What next? _

"Where will you be?" I hadn't really thought about it. Baker Street next, I suppose. Mycroft has made sure 221B remained available. It had never occurred to me before today that John wouldn't still be there, too.

"Home," He'll know where to find me, then. He stands up, and I follow. Hands me his phone, a request for my number. Three unread text messages on the screen. Mary. His dinner date. _ Where are you? xo—_I don’t read the others. I open his contacts, see that my name is still among them. Replace my old number with the new one Mycroft set me up with. Hand it back.

"Sherlock," I glance up. John is looking at me now. Eyes boring into mine. Blue as ever, caught in the sun. Bright and blinding. 

"John?"

"I'll see you again, right? I'll see you soon?" I'm not going anywhere, John. Not again. Not ever.

"Of course," He stares for another long moment, then I find myself in his arms again. He holds on, like he's afraid I'll slip away. It had never occurred to me that I could have this, this physical affection from him. This really is not my area. There’s always been something lurking deep beneath the surface here. Something I’d worked hard to hide, with limited success. My forehead falls to his shoulder. My arms squeeze tight. Maybe we can have this, now. A new language, when the words won't come.

We part, and I watch him walk away. He looks back, just a quick glance. Questioning reality, still. I'm really here, John. Once he's out of sight, I sink back down onto the bench. My eyes go to the water, barely seeing it, and I sit. Think. Still and silent.


	2. Two

Mrs. Hudson screams. I'd expected Mycroft to fill her in. I really should know by now to keep my expectations in check, when it comes to my brother. Once she's calmed herself down, we sit. She makes tea. She asks questions. I'm straddling reality again, my mind still back by the water with John. I answer as best I can. Tell her I need to rest.

Seventeen steps, and I'm home. My belongings are in boxes on the floor. Looks like Mycroft kept everything. Convenient. He has his uses. Every surface in the flat is covered in dust. Eloquent. I look around. Feel John's absence like a kick to the chest. There's no trace of him here, anymore. When did he leave? Why?  _ What next? _

I stare at my violin lying on top of a box. Consider picking it up for the first time in two years. I think of the last time I played. In this very room. John in his chair, listening with eyes closed.  _ Brilliant _ , he’d said.  _ Amazing.  _ I lie down on the couch, face buried in the cushions, and let sleep take me.

✹

I wake up to the sound of voices downstairs. Roll over and listen. Feet on the steps. I sit up. Brief moment of panic, then a quiet knock on the door. It swings open, revealing John. I blink. How much time has passed since we parted ways? I glance at the window, at the sunlight still streaming in between the dusty drapes. It's just beginning to set. Not much time, then. An hour and a half, maybe.

"John?" He's paused in the doorway, looking unsure of his welcome.

"Hello," Smiling, now, a bit. "I texted you." I reach for my phone on the coffee table. Two new texts.  _ Hey, are you around? Sherlock? _ It's on silent.

"I was asleep, I apologize," He's wearing a suit. Moustache still in place. He looks lovely, despite the unfamiliar blight on his upper lip. Smile is timid. He hasn't moved. "Come in. Please." I stand, take a few steps toward him. Our interactions are awkward, stilted.

"I can come back--is it--is this a bad time?"

"No," I say it too quickly. Rushes out of my mouth in a huff of breath. I take another step forward. "Come in, John." He does. Hangs his jacket on his hook. Right next to mine, where it belongs. We stare at each other. "I thought you had a dinner reservation," I try to keep any trace of bitterness out of my voice. I have no right to it. I can't expect him to drop everything for me. I'm the one who died.

"Yeah, um. I did-- I-- I left. To come here. Couldn't concentrate on anything, really, you know?" His eyes are pleading. Willing me to understand so he can remove his heart from his sleeve. I nod.

"John..."

"Can we talk more, Sherlock? Can we try to--I don't know--reestablish some sense of normalcy? This has been--a lot. It's a lot. I have questions."

"Yes, of course," I'm nervous now. I don't know how to do this, how to get back to our version of normal. Mrs. Hudson is on the stairs, no doubt bringing tea. "Come, sit," We move to our chairs. Same as it ever was. "Ask me anything." Tea left nearby on the table, Mrs. Hudson retreats downstairs, beaming at us as she goes. Together again.

"Who knew?" I was expecting this question. I didn't bring it up at the park, and now my heart is slamming against my ribcage.

"Mycroft. Molly. A few of the homeless network." John looks stunned.

"Molly..." He's hurt. "I mean, I expected Mycroft, but..."

"It was only out of necessity, John. I needed her connections, and I trust her. I needed a corpse that could pass as my own. You recall Moriarty's Hansel and Gretel plot. The girl screamed as if she'd recognized me. I needed Molly to find the man who impersonated me. No doubt dead once he'd played his role. He was. It worked." John gives me a long look, before speaking again.

"You trust her..."

"I'm not saying I couldn't trust you," I rush to get this out. Understand me, John, please. "You couldn't know. The three of you were specifically targeted. You couldn't know," I sound frantic. Emotion is seeping into my words, now. John drops his head, face in hands. "I almost contacted you so many times," I say. It's true.

"Why didn't you?" He's yelling now. Here's the anger, at last. "I don't even have the words to explain what I went through when you jumped," Still shouting, leaning forward in his chair. Tears now, too. John, I'm sorry. "It was hell. I thought I'd failed you. I thought you felt alone enough to end your life and that it was my fault," This hits me hard. In all of my attempts at empathy, I failed to consider the suicide component. The guilt I placed on those left behind. God, I'm an idiot. "You jumped  _ off a building _ in front of me. I thought I saw your body smashed and bleeding out on the ground. I don't want to know how you did it, not right now. I want you to understand." I'm starting to. I slide to the floor, on my knees. I grab for his hands. Like I did from the rooftop, only now I can reach.

"John..." I expect him to jump up, to recoil. To punch me or yell some more or storm out the door into the sunset. He doesn't. He lets me take his hands. He falls down to the floor as well, leans into my chest. Lets go of my hands and snakes his arms around my back again. I flinch. I don't mean to. He notices.

"Sherlock?" Don't ask, John. "What..." He's loosened his grip and has his hands pressed against my back lightly, carefully. Whatever he feels through my thin shirt has him looking at me, alarmed. "Show me."

"Don't," It comes out choked. "Please, let's not." He gives me a look fraught with worry, starts pulling my shirt out from my trousers. I won't fight him. Not on this, or anything else. For awhile, at least. He's got my shirt unbuttoned, pushing it off my shoulders to the floor. I've surrendered. He's staring at me again, with those eyes. Crystal blue persuasion. Then he moves, slowly, around me. Kneeling behind me. Quietly gasps. Then a slow exhale. A pained hiss.

"Will you tell me?" My turn to exhale. I close my eyes. It's too soon for this.

"Please, John, not now."

"These are recent," he's speaking quietly, to himself, really. "This just happened."

"Yes," John is up and out of the room. I sigh. I know what comes next. Always a doctor before anything else. I think of Mycroft, finding me in Serbia. Whips and chains and then my brother there, making light of the situation. Trying to avoid getting trapped in a conversation that will force him to admit he failed to protect me. And now John, leaping to action whether I like it or not. I do, I suppose. I do like it. I missed this, being looked after. Feeling safe. He returns with a half-depleted medical kit, likely left behind in the bathroom cabinet. Begins dressing the wounds with precision. They're not that bad, really. A bit not good. I hadn't planned on dealing with them at all. Long moments pass. I concentrate on his hands against my skin. Sanitizing the wounds, then gauze. Taping it all in place. Neat and clean. Ready to heal. Now he's finished, is getting to his feet. Reaches for my elbow and pulls me up as well, hands me my shirt. We lock eyes.

"Thank you," I murmur, feeling awkward again. I've slipped my shirt back on, sliding buttons back into their holes. "I will tell you. I'll tell you everything," When, I don't know.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

✹

He stays. We struggle to find words again, but the silences grow more comfortable. We order takeaway from our old favorite haunt down the street. Thai. Eat it quietly at the kitchen table. Feels almost familiar. Not quite, but almost. Now I've lit a fire and we're back in our chairs. Found a bottle of scotch buried in a cupboard behind expired canned goods and boxes of tea. Things John left behind. Glasses in hand, we're both staring at the fire. My mind is spinning, committing all this to memory. Finding a place for it in my mind palace. Stepping into rooms I abandoned long ago. John has surprised me today, as ever. Accepted my desperate explanations, set aside his betrayal. Showed up, listened, tended to my wounds and then stayed. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve this at all. His phone chimes once, twice.

"Sherlock..." He's looking down at his phone. Starts typing a response. He sounds hesitant, again. Hits send.

"It's all right, John. If you have to go..."

"No, I don't. I just--I should tell you..." He looks up at me. Breathes in, out. "I should tell you about Mary, I suppose. I mean I'm sure you've deduced. But I want to tell you." Had I deduced? I suppose I had. I suppose I knew there was something to tell. Not just another female of the week, then. "She--we--we've been together six months." A record, for John, as far as I know. "I moved into her flat a few months back. It's all been a bit fast, really. It felt right, at the time. And I--actually, I--" He's really struggling now. His eyes are back on the fire, right fist clenched tight, left hand gripping his glass. Knuckles white. He sighs. Meets my eyes. "I was here earlier, this morning. For the first time in over a year. I came to speak to Mrs. Hudson. That's why I want to tell you this, actually, to be sure you hear it from me." A bit taken aback by this leap in the conversation, but now I have all the data I need. He's proposed. He's engaged. He's to be married to this woman. And I'll lose him all over again. I stare back. I wait. He sighs, again. "I was going to propose tonight."

"You were..."

"I was, yeah. I didn't." Unexpected. I scramble to find an appropriate response. Thank God, John. She's not worthy of you. No one is. Never see her again. Stay here with me. No, can’t say that.

"Why didn't you?" Oh. Well it's out there now. I've put him on the spot, when I already know why he didn't. I know it's because I rose from the dead and threw a wrench in his life. Stumbled back in and wreaked havoc on his day, his plans, his sodding dinner reservations. He'll ask her another day. Another reservation, another dinner. One where I'm far away. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Because it doesn't feel right, now. Not anymore," Unexpected, again. What does that mean, John?

"Oh."

"Yeah." He doesn't elaborate, just peers back at me. I remain silent for one moment, two. His eyes shift downward, then back to the fire. The silence is stifling.  _ What next? _

✹

It's getting late. Still perched in our chairs, we watch the flames dying down in a companionable lull.

"Okay if I stay here tonight? It's a bit of a trek back to the suburbs." I look up.

"You can stay here any time you like, John. This is your home, if you want it to be." Perhaps a bit more than I meant to say.

"Thanks," he breathes out, quietly. His gaze shifts away. "I'm, uh--I'm knackered. Going to head upstairs."

"I'm not sure what you'll find up there. Haven't investigated the state of it just yet." I had heard Mrs. Hudson swooping around changing sheets and readying my room for habitation while I slept on the couch. Would be surprised if she'd thought to prepare John's as well.

"I'll make it work," He grins. A small one, but a grin nevertheless. I stand. He stands, too. "G'night."

"Goodnight, John," I want to say something profound. I want to tell him how much it means to have him here. How much I appreciate his presence, his willingness to listen, to forgive. I feel a bit lost. Perhaps it's all written on my face anyway, because he studies me for a moment and then steps forward. Presses our bodies together. Gathers me in, mindful of all injuries. Cheek on my shoulder, arms circling my waist. I relax against him. Sigh. Rest my hands on his spine. We have this now. It's enough. It's better, maybe, than words.

After a long moment of calm, he steps back, gives me one last searching look, and then disappears up the stairs toward his room.

✹

I sleep through the night. I needed it, it’s been ages aside from my brief slumber on the couch. I’m less inclined to dismiss my body as transport these days. Have learned to take sleep and sustenance when I can get them. I blink awake, risen slowly by the light of morning through my bedroom windows. I shuffle out of bed, expecting to find the flat empty, a John shaped absence looming. Back to the suburbs, duty calls. Fences to be painted, lawns to be mowed. Turning the knob slowly, I push the door open, shocked to find the flat smelling of coffee and toast. In the kitchen is John, perched at the table clutching the paper and chewing on toast and jam. He grins up at me.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, mouth full. A crumb tumbling down to land on his jumper. I feel a smile creep onto my face at this greeting, at the sight of him. Still here.

“Hello there.”

“I went out for supplies,” He waves a piece of toast at me. “Thought you might be hungry, you Twiglet,” A smirk still firmly in place, I sit down across from him. He pushes a plate of toast toward me, gets up to pour me a coffee. Adds just the right amount of sugar. It’s perfect. God, I missed this. Missed him. Will miss it again, when he goes. “Have you got anything on today?”

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I really hadn’t. Suppose I should see Lestrade at some point. Molly. The hoards of press lurking outside. “You?”

“No,” He shrugs. “Hard to walk away from you, though, now that I’ve got you back.” I don’t know what to say to that. A recurring theme, of late. I open my mouth, close it again. Then:

“Don’t, then. Stay. Stay here, John.”

“I want to, yeah. I mean--” His voice goes low, serious. “I want to keep spending time here. I want to help you get your life back in any way I can. I’d like to be partners again, eventually. Whenever you’re ready for that. When you’re ready for the work again.” He sighs. “I can’t move back here now, though. You know that.”

“Right,” Right.

“Sherlock…” He’s looking at me again. Right through me.

“It’s okay, John. It’s fine. It’s all fine. I know you’ve got a new life. I’m grateful that you still want me in it at all.” John stares. His brow creases. Head angled down, he glares up at me through pale lashes.

“You’re an idiot,” Right. “Obviously I want you in my life. God, I never wanted you to leave it in the first place. We’ll figure it out, we’ll find our way through whatever comes next,” He huffs, quietly. “You’re my best friend.” 

“I’m your--”

“Best friend, you bleeding idiot. Were, are, will always be, etcetera.” I sit quietly, poke at my toast. Moved to silence by this proclamation. John seems content to go back to his paper. As if it were obvious. As if he didn’t just shove his fingers through my chest and squeeze my heart raw.

We sit in comfortable silence for awhile. John looks up at me often, clearly checking that I’m still here. A small smile every time he sees that I am. Then his phone pings, thrice in a row. He reads the texts, sighs dramatically, and drops his head to the table.

“Problem?” I ask. I don’t really want to know. I don’t really want to know anything about her.

“It’s--Mary’s got a lot of questions.”

“I see,” I don’t, really. 

“I’ve told her you’re alive. Not that she could miss it, have you seen the news?” He waves the paper around a bit. “Anyway. She’s got questions.”

“What would she like to know?” I try for helpfulness. Not my area, but here we are.

“Well, um…” Hesitation. He’s uncomfortable. Why? “She knows all about you, you know. When we first started going out, it was just as friends. We work together at the clinic. And I was still a mess. I was a mess for a long time. Not sure I’ve ever stopped being one, really. And she was a friend. Someone willing to listen.”

“I see,” I do, this time.

“Yeah. And she--I--she just knows what a huge presence you were in my life. How important you were to me. Are to me. How low I was when we met, and everything you did for me.” He speaks quickly, lets out a breath. Still uncomfortable.

“John…” Why can’t I say anything useful? I’m sorry, John, again. You were everything to me, too. You still are. “She’s afraid she’ll lose you, now that I’m back?” Is that what this is? A guess. An attempt at grasping the emotions of a person I’ve never met and never care to. 

“Yes,” A sigh. “Basically, yes.” A fair enough concern on her part; I did drive away every woman he ever allowed into his orbit.

“Is that likely?” I’m playing with fire, now. Pushing for data. A mere twelve hours ago a proposal was imminent, and now I’m asking if he’s going to leave her.

“Sherlock…” He glances up at me warily. Knows exactly what I’m trying to do. “I can’t answer that right now. I’m still trying to process everything that’s been thrown at me since yesterday. I am so glad you’re alive. I’m so glad, Sherlock. I spent so much time wishing for this, and I can hardly believe it’s happened. But I’m not ready to drop everything I’ve built in your absence to resume my mad life with you,” Really did see right through me, then. Come back, John. “I need to sort through my thoughts and figure out what’s next.”  _ What’s next? _

John stands up. Looks down at me for a moment. Walks right over and runs his fingers through my hair. A casual ruffle. A scratch of the scalp. “I should go home, just for a bit.” Both hands, now. Fingers carding through curls. It feels incredible. He stops, holds my head between his hands, peering down at my shocked face. He’s smiling. Beaming, really. “God, I missed you.”  _ John _ . “You’ll be all right for a couple of hours, then?” I pull myself together, clear my throat.

“Of course, John.” Will I? I will. “I should see Lestrade. And Molly.” John’s eyes narrow at the mention of Molly. Only briefly. A glitch in his otherwise cheerful demeanor. What was that, then? Jealousy? Still upset, I suppose, that I trusted her with my ruse. You need not be concerned, John. I trust no one more than you.

“Right,” he bites out. “I’m off then. Text you in a bit?” I nod. Then reach for his hand, squeeze once, and let go. His smile returns, lights up his whole face. He turns, then, and walks straight out the door.


	3. Three

Lestrade calls me a bastard. He already knew, of course. He’d seen the news. Been harrassed by the press. I find him smoking in a parking garage at New Scotland Yard, and he swears and hugs me tight. I’d missed him, as well. Unafraid to call him a friend, now. Happy to.

Molly jumps about a kilometer when I show up at the morgue. She’s at her locker, and I sneak up behind. Hard to resist a touch of the dramatic. She won’t hold it against me. I’m deeply indebted to her now, and I won’t forget it. John may hold a bit of a grudge, but she risked her life--at the very least, her career--for them. For me and for them. She knows what I feel for John. She sees me for what I am. I won’t forget to let her know now that I see her, too.

I spend a few hours roaming around London, hands in pockets. I visit the places I once knew like the back of my hand. Spend time retracing old steps, revisiting old memories. I see myself and John leaping across rooftops and hailing cabs. Flying down back alleys in pursuit of faceless criminals, long since deleted. But never John. I remember every moment with John. I head back to Baker Street, feeling a bit more tethered to reality. It seems I’ve been allowed to slip back into the community I’d left behind. Pardoned from all wrongdoing and welcomed with open arms. Grateful, is what I feel. John, is who I’d like to see now.

Reporters are still hovering outside 221B. When I left this morning, I walked out the door swiftly, saying “later, later” and fled. Now they rush toward me. Clogging the sidewalk, annoying passersby. I don’t want to do this without John. I’ll wait until he can be back at my side. I’ll even wear the hat, for him.

I make it inside without much incident. Photos snapped of my impatient face. Nothing new there. Hardly newsworthy.

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. 

_ Could use a drink. How’s that bottle of scotch looking?  _

Oh, John. I could use one, too.

_ Half empty or half full. Your choice. SH _

_ Half full then. Be over in 30? _

_ Ever the optimist. I’ll be here. SH _

_ Will never get tired of hearing that. _

There’s that feeling again. Heart in a vice grip. Physical sensations to match the mental turmoil. Thoughts sent spiraling in all directions, and a pinpointed pain in my chest. What to do? Not my area. Not my area, John, and yet here we are. Threw it all away for you, and now I’ve got it back. Have I got you back? More so than I thought I would. Will it ever be enough?

I’d learned to live with this buried deep, but now, up it comes. Floating slowly to the surface, one calm embrace at a time. Rising up with each text message, each ruffle of my hair. Wasn’t prepared for it. Rarely prepared for anything, when it comes to you.

For now I’ll hold it down, just below the outermost layer of my skin. Trapped beneath my Epidermis, close but contained. I’ll beat it back so you can have your charming wife and keep your best friend, too. It’s not what I want ( _ what do I want? _ ) but it’s enough for now. For now, I’ve got you back.

And just like that, here you are. Waltzing in exactly thirty-four minutes after you said you’d be over in thirty. Not bad, John. You’ve improved. You’ve also removed your moustache. Interesting.

“Hey,” The grin again. Is this a new fixture? Cheerful by default? 

“John,” I return the grin, as best I can. Bite back the bitterness that’s been seeping in.

John goes straight for the scotch. Drops ice into two tumblers, pours generously, and takes a swig. Hands me the other. “See Lestrade, then?”

“Indeed,” He doesn’t ask about Molly.

“He’s been texting me. Still can’t bloody believe it. Says you’re a bastard.”

“Yes, he passed on that opinion directly,” I smirk. I am a bastard. No arguments from me. Will only get worse now that I’m beginning to feel like myself again.

“Anderson’s been positive you were alive since day one. Had all sorts of mad theories. I told him to stay the hell away from me, but clearly I should have been listening.” His cheer fades fast on that last sentence, and now the air is thick with tension again. How quickly we crumble. John looks down, into his glass.

“John…”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Bit out of sorts today. Happy to see you, though. Happy to be here,” A small smile. A false one. I study him for a moment, see something there I don’t recognize.

“How are things with Mary?” A visible wince. Oh. “We don’t have to talk about that, if you--I--it just seemed as if…” _ God _ . I trail off. I don’t even want to know, why am I asking? Can’t stand that look on his face. Want to smooth it over with my fingertips.

“No, it’s fine,” A pause. “Bit not good with her, just now. Which is obvious, clearly, you read it all over my face,” Well, yes. “She’s upset that I’d rather be here, with you. She knows, I think, that I had planned on proposing and left the restaurant instead. Kept blathering on about me ‘pulling away’ from her. I lost patience and came here.” Proving her right, then. He doesn’t realize. His expression has turned fierce. “My best friend has just risen from the bloody dead and she won’t even try to understand what that means for me. I mean—” A long sigh. “It is what it is. She’ll come around. Maybe you two should meet,” Must we? I won’t encourage that, John. Not yet.

“I notice you’re lacking a moustache. Barely recognize you,” He rolls his eyes. 

“Wasn’t working for me. Mrs. Hudson said it ages me,” Furrows his brow, narrows his eyes. “You hated it too, I could tell.”

“I never said a thing,” Another eye roll. “But Mrs. Hudson is rarely wrong.”

✹

It’s barely half-two and the scotch is nearly gone. “My God, what have we done?” John is giggling, sprawled on the couch to my right. Bond film forgotten on the telly. “Day drinking, really? This is what it’s come to?”

“I’ve been back from the dead all of twenty-four hours, John,” I try to sound exasperated, but it comes out sounding fond. “And need I mention that this was your idea?”

“You needn’t mention it, no,” More giggling. He’s looking up at me from his reclined position in the corner. Head on the arm of the couch, feet tucked under my thigh. “This is a celebration of your return, and the demise of my moustache.” I laugh. I can’t help it.

“Idiot.” I say through a smile.

“Oh, but I’ve missed that.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I have,” He’s scowling now. An ornery one, my John. “I’ve missed it all.” Eyes locked on mine.

“Yes. Yes, so have I.” I sigh. At this, John sits up. Pulls back his feet and tucks them under his knees, sitting cross-legged facing me. I stare back at him. “Yes?”

“Were you alone, all this time?” Oh, God.

“Yes, John.”

“You didn’t have any help? No one to talk to, nothing?” He looks impossibly distressed at the thought. As if I weren’t alone for thirty-four years, before I found him.

“Nope,” I say, popping the p. A desperate attempt at levity to avoid the direction this conversation is headed. But John says nothing. Gives me one of the long, searching looks I’m becoming accustomed to in this new chapter of ours. Then, without warning, spins around and tucks himself up under my arm, where it lies on the back of the couch. He’s holding his knees to his chest. He looks small, like this. After a moment, I bring my arm down to rest on his shoulders. Hand brushing over his arm. He leans into me, head on my chest. I like this. I want more of this, with him.

John watches the film. I watch John. A comfortable quiet falls over us.

✹

My eyes fly open. Something feels amiss. A weight across my chest, holding me down. I feel panic start to rise, heart beating wildly, until a silvery blonde head turns toward me and gazes up into my face. “Sherlock? All right?”

John’s voice is raspy from sleep. He’s draped over my chest, our legs intertwined, head cushioned in the crook of my arm. The last vestiges of daylight are fading, along with my rapidly beating heart. I exhale, relieved. “Hello.”

“Oh God, this can’t be comfortable for you. We should check your bandages, while I’m here.”  _ While I’m here. _ The phrase hangs in the air between us. It’s hateful. He starts to sit up, but I hold on to him. Rub my hand across his back in circles. He looks back up at me. Relaxes, sighs. He turns his cheek into my chest, tightens his grip on my waist. We lie like that, breathing together for awhile. 

Eventually, John gets up. Bandages are carefully swapped out for new ones. Gentle fingers against my skin. John says the wounds have begun to heal. “I should get home for dinner,” he breathes, then. My heart sinks, but I’m not surprised.

“Yes,” I don’t mean it. “You ought to,” I don’t mean it at all.

“Tomorrow?” He’s asking. Yes, John, tomorrow if you’re willing. Every moment of every day that you’re willing, the answer is yes.

“I’ll text you,” Is what I say.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter. Things get a bit weird in this one. The "mildly dubious consent" tag applies to this chapter only. If you want to avoid that, don't read the last three paragraphs.
> 
> I'll post details in a note at the bottom if you want to know what happens before you read.

_ I said I’d text you. SH _

_ Haven’t even made it down the stairs, yet. Miss me already? _

_ Obviously. SH _

_ The feeling is mutual. _

_ In a cab now. Fare is going to be outrageous. Distract me from my financial ruin. _

_ All right. SH _

_ Today was good. SH _

_ It was. _

_ Hard to believe you just returned yesterday. _

_ Hard to believe you left at all. _

_ Still difficult to forget, for me. SH _

_ I’m glad to be home. SH _

_ Hard to forget how much I missed you. _

_ Hard to forget the lengths I went to to fill the void you left. _

_ I’m glad you’re home too. _

_ What lengths? SH _

_ Nevermind. _

_ John. SH _

_ Forget it, I’m talking rubbish. Residual drunkenness. _

_ Getting a bit mopey. Good thing for you that I left. _

_ Wish you hadn’t. SH _

_ Sherlock. _

_ John. SH _

_ Almost home. _

_ Text me tomorrow if you want. I’ll be around. _

✹

_ All right? _

_ Yes. SH _

_ Anything on tonight? _

_ No. SH _

It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since John left for home. His new home. With Mary. Sun is setting, and I haven’t left the couch all day. Thought about continuing to reacquaint myself with London, but honestly I can’t be arsed. Unwilling to deal with the mob of press who seem to have taken up permanent residence outside the door. Unwilling to do much of anything. 

Considered spending the day trying to coax something resembling music from my Stradivarius, but when I picked it up it felt like a foreign entity in my hands. I’ve forgotten the language in my time away, and I haven’t the motivation to relearn just yet. Uninspired, absent of energy, a familiar black mood has settled over the flat.

I wait for another text from John, but none comes. I could swallow my pride and initiate a conversation. He has invited me to, after all. But I feel like an intruder upon his new life. My bitterness is fading into something like self-loathing. I feel deep regret when I consider the impact my death and dramatic return have had on him. He had found peace with Mary, and I’ve brought with me conflict and questions. It’s with this hopeless train of thought that I hear the door downstairs open, close. Feet bolting up the steps.  _ John _ . 

I don’t want to face him, afraid of what might come out of my mouth. I remain where I am, facing the back of the couch, face buried in the cushions. The flat is dark, now. An unfortunately familiar sight for John, who lived with my black moods for eighteen months all those years ago. He knocks quietly, then walks in. Pauses, clearly assessing the scene. Then strides right over and perches on the edge of the couch, against my lower back. He runs his hand through my curls, my shoulder, up and down my arm. I feel tears prickling the corners of my eyes. Traitorous emotion threatening to drown me, now. John doesn’t speak, just continues carding his fingers through my hair. Comforting. The tears are falling fast now, my breathing irregular. John’s not an idiot, he can see that I’m quietly sobbing in the dark. Can only imagine what he thinks of me like this. I never would have let this happen before, but this new version of me is too soft around the edges. Opened up for the world to hurt.

I feel a light pressure on my temple. I turn, a bit, and glance up to see John’s lips retreating. He hovers a few inches from my face, peering down at me as if considering his next move. Then slowly leans forward and brushes his lips lightly against my forehead, hand brushing back an errant curl. I feel a new wave of tears slide slowly down my cheeks at the gesture. He doesn’t know what he is to me. Can’t know how it feels every time we’re close like this, after all this time.

I slowly turn over, facing him. He’s looking steadily at my wet face, red eyes, taking in the state of me. I don’t want him to see me like this, to know what brought it on, so I pull him down until he’s lying facing me. Wrap my arms around his body and hold him close. He’s pressed his cheek into my neck, hands rubbing circles on my shoulders. I’ve never had this with anyone, never wanted it until John. Never dreamed that he would let down his defenses enough to have this, with me. I want to ask him what this is to him, what am I to him. Want to ask what changed, what’s brought down the walls he had put up around me. I’m afraid to shatter the delicate sphere we’ve spun around ourselves, though, so I say nothing. Just trail my hands up and down his spine through his jumper and try to breathe.

We fall asleep like this. I wake before John. It looks to be nearly midnight, and he’s still breathing steadily in my arms. Our bodies lying flush together, his hands on my lower back, now. I notice immediately that we’re both growing hard. I don’t have any strong feelings on the matter, bodies reacting as they will, but I know this will alarm John and send him flying out the door screaming  _ not gay _ into the night. I should extricate myself from his hold, but won’t he wake and deduce why I moved? The evidence is right there for him to see. I’m at a bit of a loss. Not my area, after all. 

John is moving now, a bit. Wriggling slightly in the circle of my arms. Waking up? He shifts, and our erections are now slotted together, side by side through the fabric of our trousers. I freeze. John moves his hips, just a tiny thrust, and I gasp. This is...nothing like what I’d imagined could happen between us. Immense physical pleasure mixed with crushing guilt and dread. A painful combination. He rolls his hips again, a small groan escaping from somewhere deep in his chest as he slides against me. I feel panicked. He’s almost certainly asleep, and he’ll be horrified that this is happening.

I still haven’t moved, and he’s frotting against me in earnest now. A slow slide of our bodies, separated by layers of cotton and wool. I’m being swallowed up and frozen in place by the panic rising in my gut. On top of that, though, pleasure is coiling, about to boil over. This is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m letting out puffs of ragged breath and John is moaning quietly against my neck and grasping frantically at my waist. Nearly hyperventilating now, I’m entirely overwhelmed. Pleasure and panic in equal amounts. I feel my body go still, my vision replaced with a bright, blinding white, as my back arches violently and I’m coming, shattering, flying to pieces in John’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More Specific Warnings:**
> 
> Accidental sleep sex (frottage, to be specific) and a simultaneous panic attack. No orifices are breached. No one is severely traumatized. Still, though. A bit not good.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one. Should perhaps warn that the first paragraph is Sherlock's panic attack, if that's something you'd like to avoid.

“Oh God, oh my God,” I hear John’s voice break through the fog that’s settled across my mind. He sounds like he’s a mile away. “Sherlock, try to breathe.” I’m slowly drifting back to myself, returning to reality. I realize now that I’m gasping for breath. The panic I had thrown aside is creeping back in full force and I’m struggling to catch my breath at all. Can’t move, can’t speak. Heart cracking open beneath my ribs. I open my eyes and see John hovering over me, wild eyed and sweating concern from every pore. “You’re having a panic attack. Sherlock, try to breathe with me. Please.” His voice cracks a bit there. He holds my face in his hands. “Look at me,” and is breathing deliberately. In, out. “Breathe when I do,” Slow, steady. I try to sync my breath with his. I’m staring up into his eyes with an intensity I usually reserve for crime scenes. All my focus on John, and all I see is warmth and worry. What about what just happened then? His doctorly concern has overridden his sexual identity crisis? I suppose it has. Of course it has. For now. 

My breaths are evening out now. John’s thumbs brush my temples, fingers against my scalp. I feel almost calm. He did just break me apart and put me back together again. “All right?”

“John—I—I’m sorry, I—“ A bumbling idiot, is what I am. He’s shaking his head.

“No. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I should be apologizing to you. It’s all gotten quite complicated, hasn’t it? Can we talk about it, in a bit?” I nod, but I’m unsure. I’m afraid he’ll give me his apologies, tell me we don’t work as a pair anymore—not like this—and say goodbye.

✹

John is in the kitchen, preparing two cups of tea. The air around us is thick with tension. The dread in my gut is becoming a familiar presence, in this new chapter of life. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, to lose everything I’ve just gotten back. 

Once I’ve changed into pyjamas and a dressing gown, settled down and propped myself up on the couch, I begin to turn everything over in my mind. I’ve learned quickly not to make assumptions when it comes to this new version of John. He’s caught me off guard many times already during the short time we’ve been reunited. He seems to have matured emotionally in our years apart. He’s grown, while I’ve retreated into a childish frailty I was once adept at hiding away. If this had happened two years ago, John would be packing his bags and I’d be building steel walls around my heart, hiding away and spitting cruel words at those who dared disturb me. Or just sticking a needle in my arm. But it has happened, and John is right here, making tea. I’m positive, though, that I saw regret in his eyes tonight. Through the thick haze of orgasm and panic—and really  _ what _ a combination—I saw his regret.

Sex isn’t something I ever planned to ask of him. I’ve no practical experience with it, and no real desire to seek it out. I’m not alarmed by it. Have thought about it a bit and am surely not opposed to exploring it with John, but I never intended to cross that line. I knew it would end in regret, for him.

John sits down to my left, keeping a few feet of distance between us. He hands me a mug of tea, looks up at me carefully. “It’s hard to know where to begin, Sherlock,” he breathes out, almost a whisper.

“I know,” I say.

“I’m sorry that happened, the way that it did,” the regret is back, swimming in the pools of his irises. He looks sad. “I hope you know that I never meant to spring that on you. I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.” I know all this. This is what I expected him to say. I nod.

“You regret it.”

“Yes,” his eyes have gone a bit glassy, locked on mine still. He takes a deep breath, continues. “But I—I’m—I do regret it, but I don’t think it’s for the reasons you're assuming.”

“Why, then?” It comes out a bit harsh. He sighs.

“Sherlock, do you even want this sort of thing? As long as I’ve known you, you haven’t. As far as I can tell. And tonight I didn’t exactly give you a choice. I don’t feel good about that. In fact, it’s breaking my heart, a bit.” Oh, John. He thinks he hurt me. That he unknowingly broke down a barrier I wasn’t ready to cross.

“John, I should clarify, before you say anything else, that my panic had nothing to do with the sex. Not really,” he looks confused by this, so I continue. “As soon as I realized what was happening, I began to fear that you’d wake up and find yourself in the midst of a sexual identity crisis. That you’d resent me for it, and that you’d leave. That’s when the panic came. Not because I’m opposed to sexual activity,” I succeed at keeping my tone matter-of-fact. I want to be clear. Understand me, John. Please.

“Sherlock…” he’s got his face in his hands, now. Distressed by this conversation. “I accepted my sexual identity years ago.”

“But you’re not—“

“Not gay, no. But that clearly doesn’t mean anything when it comes to you.” This gives me serious pause. What? I need more data. He continues, the words tumbling out of him now in a steady stream of breath. “I thought you were married to your work. I thought that was you telling me you’re asexual, or something of the sort. And now I’ve just unknowingly forced myself on you and gave you a panic attack to boot.”

“You were asleep, John. Clearly having a dream of a sexual nature. We were very close. It isn’t your fault, and you didn’t hurt me.” He’s looking down at the floor, tears falling now. “Has this damaged things between us?” I say this very quietly. Perhaps so he can pretend he hasn’t heard. He looks up now, meeting my eyes.

“I don’t want it to,” he breathes. “I like what we’ve had, the past few days. I like being close to you, being allowed to touch you. To show affection. We never let ourselves do that, before.” The regret swims back into his eyes at the thought of how we were. At the memory of how determined we'd been to remain walled-off and distant. “And it started because I needed to remind myself you were really here, but already it’s become comfortable,” It has. It is. I don’t want to lose it either, John. “But I feel pretty shit about a lot of things right now. Not very happy with myself.”

“Because of Mary.”

“Yes. Because you’ve been back three days and I’m already finding myself drawn completely into your orbit. Because I’d rather be here than with the woman I was ready to marry a few days ago.” Right. And I caused this. I search for the right words...

“John—“

“None of this is your fault, Sherlock. Don’t you dare apologize again. I—“ Another sigh. “I—look. I said last night that it was hard to forget the lengths I went to, to fill the void you left. I didn’t mean to say that, to put that on you. But the truth of it is this: I was ready to marry someone I don’t love, to throw myself into a life I don’t want, just to distract myself from thinking of you constantly. From being swallowed up by regret,” He’s breathing rough, a steady stream of tears now. I’m rooted in place, gaping at him, barely able to process any of this. He pauses for a breath. In, out, and continues. “When you died, it became startlingly clear that what I had with you was more than I ever could have hoped for. Something I will never find again. Once in a lifetime. I was so happy here, with you. With whatever we were to each other,” He looks up at me with wet eyes, and I’m barely breathing now. “And it didn’t take me long, then, to realize it’s because I was completely in love with you. And that hasn’t gone away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ʘ‿ʘ


	6. Six

A long moment passes between us. I attempt to communicate what I’m feeling through my eyes alone. Our gazes are locked, as is our custom these days. And once again, the words won’t come. I want to tell him it’s the same for me, but those words feel too small. I could tell him I love him too, but that doesn’t come close to covering it. I could tell him how I stood on that rooftop and realized he’d become everything to me. Could let him know he’s lived on in my mind during our years apart, how not a day went by that I didn’t speak to him, rely on him, still. How even dead, I needed him. Though I spent my days as a ghost, he was with me.

Slowly, I slide my hand across the space between us, leaving it upturned on the couch. An invitation. Take my hand, John. He does. Fingers laced, we both stare at our connected limbs. I squeeze. I picture each bone beneath our skin. Picture each muscle, joint, ligament, tendon. All working in tandem to allow this grasp. I focus on the warmth of John’s palm, pressed against mine. I think of what he said. I suspect I’ll think of little else, for the rest of my life. I wonder what comes next. What now, John?

“Sherlock,” he’s still looking at our joined hands. “What do you want?” An impossible question. I still don’t have an answer for it. I tell him as much.

“I don’t know,” It’s barely a whisper. He hasn’t looked up yet. I fear I’ve hurt him, but I don’t have the words for this. Then, a split-second decision. I’m moving towards him, sliding my fingers from his grasp. I bring my hands up, cup his jaw. Lips to forehead, left cheek, right. He looks startled. I won’t add to his guilt about Mary. I don’t want him to feel like he’s letting anyone down. Here is my answer, John. I just want to be close to you. This is enough, for now. I snake my arms around his back, palms splayed out, pulling him in. I press my face into the crook between neck and shoulder. Left hand sliding up to hold the nape of his neck. I can feel his wet cheek against my temple. His hands have rested on my lower back. Again, we relax into each other. This is what we do now, this is what we have. I will fight to keep this. “John?”

A shaky inhale. “Yeah?”

“What next?”

An exhale, now. “I think--” He sighs, breath puffing against my cheek, “I think, now, I end things with Mary. Tie up the loose ends on that life. I don’t know what’s next for us, but I know I don’t want that.”

“Will you come back?” Come back home, is what I mean.

“I don’t know. Is that a good idea? I really don’t know.”

“Your decision to make, John,” I can’t force this. Everything is so delicate between us now. “But to be clear, I am absolutely amenable to the idea.”

“We’ve both changed, Sherlock,” True enough. “I think we need to get to know each other again. Can we do that living under the same roof?” Yes. I’m sure of it. We’ve done it before. “If you think we can, I’ll try. I’m worried we’ll get ahead of ourselves, and I refuse to lose you again.”

“If you’ll recall, we moved in together the day we met, and here we are.” I feel him smile against my cheek. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep you in my life.”

He pulls back, now, holding onto my upper arms. Looks intently at my face. “You’ve changed so much,” His eyes flicker back and forth between mine, searching. Always searching. Deducing emotions as I never could. “You’re more open, now,” A gaping wound, yes. “What shifted for you?”

“A lot has happened, John,” Vague. He doesn’t need to know, yet. It will haunt him. “I’ve learned what’s important.” He smiles.

“You have, haven’t you? So have I.” He kisses my cheek, slides back, stands up. “I’m going to go talk to Mary. There’s no point in putting it off.” It’s still early, but the sun has begun to rise. A new day.

✹

It’s been hours, six of them to be exact, and still no word from John. I’ve been pacing the flat, mind spinning out, wild ideas obscuring my normally rational sensibilities. What if she murdered him? We’ve certainly seen enough cases like that over the years. Man leaves fiance for best friend. Fiance murders them both. Ridiculous. 

I need to calm down. John wouldn’t almost-marry a murderer. Reality catches up to me with that thought, though, and it occurs to me that John and I both have, in fact, taken human lives. There’s a sobering line of thought. Does it count if you’re murdering murderers? Of course it does. Damaged, the both of us. Would John marry me? I shake my head.  _ God _ , this is not helpful. I’ll just swallow my pride and text him.

_ All right? SH _

Five minutes pass. Ten. Fourty-five. I wait. I pace.

_ Tell me she hasn’t murdered you. SH _

Another hour passes in silence. Do I need to be concerned? In our old life I’d have had Mycroft scouring his CCTV network for John hours ago. I’d have been out the door, on the trail. Assumed kidnapping, send out the dogs. But his life is quiet now. And I’ve only just returned. Surely I’m overreacting. What, then, could possibly be taking so long?

And then, the door. Feet on the steps. Unmistakably John’s. A slow ascent. Unusual. Worrisome. I fling open the door to the flat and we meet face to face. Eye to eye.

“What’s happened?” He looks wrecked. Defeated. Grief in his puffy, bloodshot eyes.

“Mary’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's also boring, and I don't want her in my fic. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Seven

“Yes, yes,” I wave my hand, the one that isn’t holding a phone to my ear, in exasperation. “I need more data, Mycroft. Find out whatever you can about her actual identity and send me the file.” I hang up with as much of a dramatic flourish as one can muster on a touch-screen. So far we’ve learned a disconcerting amount about the woman who called herself Mary Morstan. Enough to have John questioning everything he thought he knew.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to do this. Can we not, actually? Can we not do this?” John has been curled up in his chair since he walked through the door two hours ago. I glance over at him. “I don’t want to know any more. Not now, not yet. It’s already too much.” He’s overwhelmed. I don’t know how to help him, so I’ve been gathering data. It’s what I do.

Lestrade was eventually put in charge of her case, and has been keeping me informed. I run through everything that I know so far: Mary had been shot in the forehead, on the street by a sniper rifle, outside the flat of the man she’d spent the night with. John had gone home this morning to an empty flat, couldn’t get ahold of her, and then answered the door to an officer asking him to come in to the station. He then spent most of the day being interviewed and questioned. 

Mary had gone out with friends last night, and stayed out when the rest of them went home. Not unusual for her to do, they all claimed. CCTV footage from the bank across the street showed exactly which flat she’d spent the night in, and the man who resided there was an ex boyfriend of hers, David Evans. He gave a statement claiming that Mary spending the night was a common occurrence, and that he had no information on her death. Notes stated that he appeared devastated by the loss. He was released. No information on the sniper has been uncovered. 

Upon looking into her past, it became very clear, very quickly that Mary Morstan was not who she said she was. Mycroft has found that she was, in fact, a trained assassin. Freelance, with ties to Moriarty. And she was almost certainly placed in John’s clinic to keep an eye on him.

All of this fills me with a great sense of unease. Who wanted her dead? Why now? Is John a target as well? Who placed this woman in his life? She began working at the clinic a year ago. A year _ after _ Moriarty’s death, then. Was she hired to find out if John was in contact with me? Did she grow to care for him, despite it all? Would she have actually married him? I shake my head, have to stop this train of thought. She’s dead, and these sorts of questions are futile. I’ll focus on assuring John’s safety, now. And I’ll do whatever I can to be there for him.

“What can I do?” I ask. Tell me how to make this tolerable, John. He sighs, a sound of relief.

“Distract me.” I raise an eyebrow, and he laughs, though it’s strained. “I’m not asking you to take me to bed, Sherlock. Let’s watch crap telly. You can deduce and berate all the idiots for my entertainment,” I like the sound of this. This is something we did before.

“All right,” I smile. “Come on, then,” I grab him by the wrist and hoist him out of his chair. We plop down on the couch, and without hesitation he pulls at my shoulder until I’m lying with my head in his lap. His fingers go straight to my hair. “You like this.”

“Hmm?” He grabs the remote, flicks on the telly. Scans for a bit and stops on a makeover show.

“Petting my hair. You like this.” I roll onto my back, look up at him. His fingers continue to pull gently through curls.

“Mm, yes, I do,” He glances down at my face. One hand comes up, fingers brush over my eyebrows. Left, then right. Across each cheekbone, then. I close my eyes. He traces my jaw, behind my ear. “You’re beautiful, you know,” My eyes fly open, I scowl. _ John _. Come on. He laughs. “Don’t. You are,” I huff quietly, close my eyes again. Fingers smooth my furrowed brow. Then he leans down, presses his lips to the spot just between my eyes. I bring my hand up to his cheek, just brushing it with my fingertips. Suddenly the moment feels electric. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, waiting. For what, I’m not sure. I know what I want to happen next. But John has been clear about not wanting to get ahead of ourselves. And after everything that’s happened today, is this really the time for such a thing? I don’t know. Not my area. But then:

His lips are on mine. A soft pressure, barely a touch. Admittedly I’m out of my element here, but this doesn’t feel like enough. I tilt my head a bit and lean up, palms cupping his face, increasing the pressure. He brings his hands to my nape, holds me up. Don’t pull away, John. I want this. I part my lips, and so does he. I don’t know where to go from here. We’ve paused, just breathing the same air. Slowly, he brings our mouths together again, sucks lightly on my lower lip. Reverently. His touches feel careful, deliberate. He’s being gentle with me. Do I need that? Maybe I do. Maybe he needs that, too. It feels incredible, this intimacy with him. We’ve barely touched and my heart is beating out of my chest, breaths coming fast. I run my thumbs across his cheeks. We break apart, stay close. I open my eyes and he’s already staring back at me. We’re both panting, a bit. “Hi,” I breathe.

“Hello.” He says, hushed, a grin spreading across his face. He looks so young, like this. Boyish. Happy. I can’t help but return his smile. 

I lie back down, pull him with me. “Come on,” I say. He slides down next to me, face to face, my back against the cushions. I can feel his tension, now that we’re lying like this. Thinking about last night then. He’ll never let that guilt go. You didn’t hurt me, John. “Roll over,” He does. I wrap my arms tight around his torso, pull his body back against mine. My hands are on his stomach. Can feel the muscle there through the wool of his jumper. Want to remove the layers between our skin. But not now, not yet. I kiss the back of his neck. Bury my face there. He sighs. Content. I recall a promise to watch crap telly. Am I letting him down? I was supposed to be distracting. Could drift off like this. Have never known such comfort. My eyes are growing heavy now.

“Sherlock?” I’m pulled from my light doze.

“Yes, John?” I tighten my arms around him.

“I don’t know how to grieve her,” Well, I’ve failed at distraction, then. “Or if I even can. I didn’t know her at all.” I don’t know what to say to this, so I run my hands up to his chest, kiss his ear. “I knew I was going to leave her the moment you returned,” just a whisper. “I knew the second you sat down on that bench and said my name that I would follow you wherever you go, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“_ John _ ,” I grip his chest tightly and press my cheek to his shoulder blade. He brings his hands up to where mine rest and holds on. _ God. _I love him. “I love you,” He makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Did he not know? “In case you somehow weren’t aware. I love you.”

A long pause. “I wasn’t, actually,” At this, he rolls over in my arms. Places a hand right over my thundering heart and peers up at me. “Sherlock, tell me what you want. What you want this to be.” This impossible question again.

“I’m hesitant to answer that, John.”

“Why? What are you afraid of, exactly?” I let out a long breath, staring down at him. At this man that I’ve loved for so long. Are my fears really relevant, with him? They might be. I really don’t know what I’m doing. There’s always a risk. But he loves me, too. Emboldened by this thought, I take a deep breath, and decide on honesty.

“I want everything. That’s what I’m afraid of,” I pause, consider my next words carefully. “You already are everything to me, John. I want to be partners, in every sense of the word. I want you to move back home. I want to discover sex with you and then wake up next to you. Cook meals together, laugh together, settle back into our own sort of domesticity, interrupted constantly by the work. I want to run around London with you until our legs will no longer carry us. And then live quietly with you in the country somewhere. And I’ve been hesitant to voice this aloud because I’m afraid you won’t want the same, or at least not all of it. Afraid I’m asking for too much. Afraid I’ll be horrible at this and destroy my relationship with you, the person I hold most dear. Afraid to hand over my heart, although to be fair, you’ve already had it for a very long time. I want us to belong to each other. But I don’t know how much of this I’m actually capable of. It’s a risk, John.”

“_ God, _Sherlock.” His eyes had grown wider and wider as I blurted out all my desires and fears, here in the middle of this flat we’ve called home. Baring my soul to you John. Heart is in your hands. “You’re such a bloody romantic,” I glare. “I want all of that, too. We can have that.” He leans forward, kisses me. Slow, soft. Then my jaw, my throat. I swallow. “I know it’s a risk, there’s always a risk. But I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. I’m committed to you in whatever way you want me. If we both want everything, we can have it.”

I hug him tight, lips against his soft, fine hair. I feel lightheaded with relief. Can hardly believe it. I’ve knocked down all my walls for him and he’s accepted me without question. He hadn't even known what he is to me. I never let him see, before. “John?” He makes a small sound of acknowledgement from where he’s huddled against my chest. “You should know, while I was away, I missed you like a piece of me had been snapped off and thrown out to sea. I have a lot of regret about the way things happened, when I left.” He squeezes my arm, turns his head up to look at me, eyes shining. “I thought of you constantly. You were with me through everything. You’re the reason I made it through that experience,” He’s reached up to brush my hair from my forehead, silent tears on his cheeks. “And because of how I left, I expected to come back to anger and resentment. I thought you’d hate me, at least for awhile. I was prepared to try and earn back your trust, to convince you to give me a chance. But every step of the way you’ve surprised me with a level of affection above anything I thought was possible. I can hardly believe my luck.” I swallow. When have I ever been so forthcoming? This is what you inspire in me, John. He gives me an incredulous look, though his mouth is twisted up into a lopsided smile.

“It’s not luck, Sherlock. It’s love. And it goes both ways. I know what you did for me. I owe you my life.”

“I owe you mine, many times over.” He sighs, fingers still slowly brushing through the hair at my temple.

“So that’s what we’ll do then. Protect each other. But Sherlock,” His voice is serious now. Wants to be heard. “If you need to leave again, take me with you.”

“Yes,” Oh, John. “All right, yes.”

We both move forward as if propelled by a force outside ourselves. Lips parted, heads tilted, I hold on for dear life. The kiss is deeper this time. Still gentle. But now there’s passion seeping through. I slide my hand up his side, back down again. He’s got my head in his hands. Strong, safe. I feel his tongue trace my lower lip. I let my hand slide beneath his jumper and shirt. Skin at last. He gasps into my mouth at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. My fingers explore. Trace along his taut stomach, across his hip to his back. Up, up. We’re both panting now, kissing fiercely. I am barely staying above the thick fog of emotion that is present whenever we’re close like this. I can tell he’s holding back, though. We both know what comes next. I want it. But more than that I respect his intention to do this right. To take it one step at a time. I should stop this, for now. Reluctantly, I break the kiss. Scratch my nails down his back, lightly, then pull away enough to look at him. He looks rumpled, shaken up. Red lipped and tousle-haired. I love him. I smile. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Smiles. A bit bashful. He’s perfect.

“Hungry?” It’s dinner time, and I doubt he’s eaten all day. I surely haven’t.

“Starving.” The grin widens. “Shall we go out?” I’m surprised at the suggestion. The events of today have been world-shattering for John. He’s been issued a demand to grieve a woman he’s just learned he never really knew. Outside of our little cocoon, I’m afraid it’ll all catch up with him. And aside from that, we still don’t know if he’s being targeted. Not enough data. I want to keep him safe, keep him physically and emotionally whole. He must see all this on my face. Ever-observant of emotion, my John. “Sherlock,” he begins. “I haven’t forgotten everything that’s happened today. I’m going to have to deal with it all very soon. Right now, though, I'm going to focus on the best thing that’s ever happened to me—that’s you, you bleeding idiot—and I’d like to take you out.” He’s smiling. “Besides, you know Mycroft assigned us a security detail hours ago. They’ve been outside.”

I kiss his upper lip. Brush my lips over his cheekbone. “Where to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll never guess where they go.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: sex.

We walk side by side through the door to Angelo’s for the first time in two years, my hand possessively placed on John’s lower back. I can’t stop myself from touching him. I don’t intend to try. Angelo drops the stack of receipts he’s holding at the sight of us, and they flutter slowly to the ground as he guides us enthusiastically to our table by the window. Same as it ever was. Mycroft’s men drove us the short distance from the flat and are now just outside, although I’m not convinced they’ll be of much use against a determined sniper. Still, we’ve never been the type to hide.

Being here again with John is bringing up a lot of memories I haven’t visited in a long time. We’ve come here many times, sat at this table, talked and laughed. Usually high on adrenaline and buzzing from wine. I never fail to dwell on our first dinner here, though. So quick to dismiss him. Even after my stomach dropped to the floor when he walked into that lab the previous day. Even though there was something between us even then.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by John’s hand brushing lightly on my wrist. “All right?” He’s smiling.

“Yes,” I turn my wrist and grab his hand. “Bit overwhelmed.”

“Yeah,” He breathes. “I can’t believe we’re here. Can’t help but think of the first time we sat here-- how much has changed.” Angelo chooses this moment to drop a candle on the table as he pours our wine. John and I share a grin.  _ More romantic _ . Indeed.

We eat. John has shown endless delight over the fact that I now eat without  _ pitching a fit _ , as he puts it. In reality, I just can’t find many reasons to be difficult anymore. No more joy to be found in frustrating my loved ones. Not much, anyway. Maybe a bit. I reach across the table, fork in hand to swipe a bite off John’s plate. He balks, feigns annoyance, does the same with my ravioli. We talk about old times, because no other topic is safe. We can’t talk about how we’ve spent the last two years without being overwhelmed by the pain of it, so we don’t. We will, soon. When we’re safe in our cocoon. For now, we recall our time running through the streets of London. The wine has done a number on the both of us, and it’s easy now to laugh and laugh. John is considering bringing back the blog. We discuss the future of the work, of our partnership. We discuss dealing with the press at our doorstep that we’ve been avoiding for days. We don’t talk about Mary. Don’t talk about the texts I’ve been getting regularly from Mycroft and Lestrade, saying they still haven’t found the man who shot her. Begging us to be careful. I don’t ask how John is feeling about it all, because I’m not sure he knows. 

Now that our glasses are empty, dessert long since eaten, the unsettling truth of it all starts to fall over us. We’re quiet now, glancing at each other every now and then. “What next, John?” I ask, unsure what I even mean by it.

“Home,” he says.

✹

We’re chauffeured back to 221B without incident. It’s getting late, and not a reporter in sight. Seventeen steps, and we walk into the flat to find that Mycroft has had his men bring all of John’s clothes and belongings over in boxes. He looks relieved at the sight of it. Wordlessly, he digs for pyjamas, and I retreat to my bedroom to change into mine. He finds me in the loo, toothbrush in hand, and we brush our teeth, side by side. Catching each other’s eye in the mirror. Then he quietly takes my hand and leads my to my own bed.

We peel back the covers and climb in. Move toward each other and meet in the middle. My arms circle his body as if it’s old habit, though we’ve never even shared a bed before. He tucks his head under my chin, slides his hands under my shirt, careful not to disturb the healing wounds on my back. I removed the bandages this morning and haven’t thought about them since. Now they’re a reminder of all the things we aren’t saying. He doesn’t mention it, just brushes his hands slowly over my lower back. Up, down. I do the same. Fingertips against the skin of his back. Up, up, and this time I feel for the scar that brought him to me, all those years ago. Lay my right palm flat against it as my left continues to stroke along his spine. Still, we say nothing. Slowly, sleep takes us.

✹

I awake to dim sunlight. It’s still quite early, but I’ve managed another full night’s sleep. I attribute the lack of nightmares or sudden bouts of panic to John’s presence. He’s still asleep, tucked against my side with his head pillowed on my shoulder, arm thrown over my waist. I take a moment to boggle at the fact that I get to have this now. I run my fingers through his hair. Something he’s done for me many times now and I’ve yet to return the favor. I comb through, fingernails gently dragging on his scalp. His hair is soft, more silver than it was before. It suits him. He’s lovely. A deep inhale, he’s waking. “Mm,” he stretches a bit. “Hi there,” tips his head up and presses a kiss to my jaw.

“Oh, hello,” I rumble. We lock eyes, and after a beat I lean down and bring our mouths together, hand still brushing through the hair on the back of his head. Unbothered by morning breath--just another piece of John I will soon find familiar--I part my lips, deepen the kiss. He sighs into my mouth, runs his tongue along my teeth. I shiver at the intimacy of this. I feel his hand slip under my shirt now, up my chest. His fingers lightly brush against my nipple, sending an unexpected wave of arousal through my body. He does it again.  _ John _ . What are you trying to do to me? His hand moves to my other nipple, and I moan into the kiss. He pulls back to look up at me, a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

“You’re so responsive,” another brush across my chest, his fingers trail slowly down my ribcage, and I writhe a bit beneath the touch. He continues on like this, the pads of his fingers drifting over my torso. My heart is beating wildly now, and I feel myself hardening fast.

“ _ John _ ,” His erection is growing against my thigh as well. Are we doing this, then? I’m following his lead. But if he keeps going with this slow tease, he’s going to kill me.

“Do you want this, Sherlock?” His fingers slide down to trace carefully along the sensitive flesh above my pyjama bottoms. I wriggle under his hand, panting lightly. He brushes a thumb against my hip bone. Back, forth. Softly.

“What are you asking?” Obviously I want it. I’ve told him as much, and all the signs are there.

“Do you think we’re ready for this?”

“Don’t you?” He looks up at me now, moves his hand out from under my shirt. Places it instead over my heart.

“You know I--I haven’t--I’ve never been with a man,” He sounds almost afraid to admit this. Oh, John.

“Neither have I. Obviously. Or anyone else, for that matter.” He smiles at this. I think of the other night, frotting against one another on the couch. Our first time. Tainted by my state of panic and John’s lack of wakefulness. Seemed to work then, despite us both being men. I don’t bring this up. He seems determined to forget.

“Right. So we don’t know what we’re doing,”

“We’ll figure it out, John. We can wait, though, if you’d like. There’s no rush on my end.” And there isn’t. I’ve already got more than I ever dared hope for. I’ll take things as they come.

He ponders this for a long moment. Then moves back a bit, props his head up with his right arm. Looks down at me. “I love you,” he says. Then, without warning, reaches out with his left hand and rubs slowly up my erection through my pyjamas. I gasp, loudly. “And if at any point either of us changes our minds, we need only say ‘stop’.” A pointed look. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

“Right,” He looks me up and down. “Off, I think,” He pulls on the hem of my shirt. I let him pull it off of me. I feel a bit exposed now that my skin holds unfamiliar scars, but I want John to see me. He lifts his own shirt over his head as well, tosses it on the floor. We sit, observing, taking each other in. 

I lie back again and he follows. Scoots in to lay against my side, head on my shoulder, the way we woke up. He’s looking down my body. I pull his chin up to meet my gaze, then close my eyes and kiss him. With purpose, with intent. He responds enthusiastically as ever. Moments go by, years maybe. I’m once again lost in the sensations of our mingling breaths and joined lips. He slides his tongue against mine now, a new element to this language we’re creating, and I mirror his movements. I feel myself shiver violently, and I open my mouth wider, our kisses becoming sloppy, frantic. It’s not enough, I want to get closer. Want to crawl inside him and curl up beneath his ribcage. My hands roam his body wherever I can reach. I haven’t breached the lower half just yet. Waiting to follow his lead. But I want to.

Eventually, he breaks the kiss, and we lie there panting hard into each other’s mouths for a long moment. Then he places a quick peck on my cheekbone, sits up and swings his left leg over my body, straddling my thighs. He leans forward and runs the pads of his fingers over my nipples a few times, slowly. Watching me squirm. Then drags them, down, down. “Can I?” His fingers dip just under the waistband of my pyjamas. Looks up at me, waits. He looks young again, full of wonder, almost. Not that I approve of such whimsy. I smile at the thought, and nod, not trusting my ability to speak. His eyes shift downward again, and he slowly pulls down my pyjamas. He moves off of me, removes them entirely, as well as his own, and resumes his place straddling my body. Higher up on my hips, this time. He sinks down, shifts a bit.  _ Oh _ . We lock eyes. All sense of levity is gone now. The air around us is on fire, the moment heavy.

John reaches down and wraps his fingers tentatively around my erection. My entire focus narrows down to his fingers on my body, flesh coming alive. He tightens his grip a bit and strokes once. My back arches immediately at the touch and I hear myself let out a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan. My mind is reeling, trying to accept these new sensations. He removes his hand and rubs up and down my sides and hips instead. Soothing. “All right?” He doesn’t want to overwhelm me. I had clearly underestimated my reaction to John's hands on me like this. So different from my own, so much  _ more _ .

I nod. “I want to touch you,” almost a whisper. He swallows, then moves back down to lie next to me. 

“Let’s try--do you have lube?” I nod toward the bedside table. He reaches for the drawer and pulls out the barely used bottle. What’re you plotting, John? “Here,” he hands it to me with a shy smile, then rolls over and scoots back, spooned against my body, my erection pinned between my stomach and the crack of his arse. Ah. “All right?”

“Yes,” I squeeze his arm. Yes, John, this is perfect. I lean back, apply a bit of lube to my palm and coat myself with it, then move back into position. I hesitate, feeling unsure. John senses this, reaches back for my hand, palm slick with lube, and brings it around his waist. I wrap my fingers around him, my heart rate sky high, and begin to stroke. I move my wrist slowly, keeping my grip somewhat loose. He’s already melting against me and breathing hard. I keep a steady rhythm, up, down, and soon John is thrusting lightly into my grasp, each movement of his hips stroking my erection between his cheeks.

“Go ahead, Sherlock,” he whispers between heavy breaths. “You can move,” So I do. I begin a slow thrust against him, in time with the strokes of my hand. We keep this up for awhile, breathing together. Kisses on his shoulders, the top of his spine, until he begins moving his hips a bit faster. I speed up, quickly finding a rhythm together, moving as one entity. Forward, back. I tighten my grip a bit and he moans. Rub my thumb over the glans and he cries out, quietly. The pleasure that’s been snaking through my body is becoming hard to contain. I’m panting unabashedly into his neck now, trying to stay afloat. 

All of the years we denied ourselves this are rushing in, threatening to choke me. I’ve never felt such an intense connection with another person as I do in this moment. Perhaps we waited too long to give ourselves this, and now it holds too much weight over us. Or perhaps it always would have been this intense, with us. No point dwelling on our lost years, not now. 

I quicken my strokes and John cries out again, I’m rutting against him with frantic movements, and his hips are thrusting wildly into my fist. He chokes out my name, a warning, as his body goes rigid. Then he shouts, coming into my fist, a stream of curses pouring from his lips, and I’m gone. I hear myself cry out as though listening from somewhere above. A disembodied voice. I’m blinded by the intensity of the single most consuming orgasm I’ve experienced in my life, as my hips slam upward against John, my arms now clutching him to me. My eyes are squeezed shut, and I feel myself ejaculate between us, once, twice, again. Our breaths are ragged, melted against each other as we ride out the aftershocks. My arms are wrapped tightly around his body, face buried in the crook between neck and shoulder. Moments pass like this. Electric, profound. I don’t know what I’d say even if my voice were functioning properly. I have no words for this. None that would come close to adequately expressing what I feel for him.

John brings both hands up to stroke my arms where they lie across his chest. I loosen my grip, and he laces our fingers together, wraps our joined limbs around his torso. Neither of us says a word, we lie together and let our breathing slow. I begin to doze lightly, thoughts quiet, as content as I’ve ever been.

I’m roused from my light slumber when I feel the bed dip, hear the door open, then John padding around in the loo. Toilet flushing, water running, and he’s back. Slides back into bed and without a word, wipes the mess from my body with a wet flannel he retrieved. Gentle. He lies down, facing me now. We gaze at each other, still silent. Neither of us finding the words. I reach out, lay my hand on his hip, yanking him towards me in one swift movement. He laughs, nestles in. Cheek to my throat and left hand coming up to brush fingers along my jaw. “Sherlock—” barely a whisper. I squeeze his hip.

“I know, John,” and I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, dudes. They actually leave the flat for more than five minutes in this one.

We doze off together, rising reluctantly half an hour later to the sounds of our phones. Mine vibrating on the bedside table, his pinging softly from somewhere on the floor.

_ You wouldn’t believe the reports I’ve been getting from your security detail, brother mine. _

_ The strangest sounds have infiltrated their ears. _

_ Coming from your flat, no less. _

_ Piss off, Mycroft. SH _

_ Shall I congratulate you now or later? _

_ PISS OFF. SH _

_ Happy for you. Truly. _

“Is that Greg?” John has been tapping away at his own phone, propped up against the headboard and scowling at whatever he sees on the screen. “He’s been texting more details about Mary’s case. God, I’m not up for this today.”

“Mycroft,” I snarl. “Does Lestrade require anything from you?”

“He hasn’t said,” He shrugs. “Just says that they’ve not found much else on Mary. Or whatever her name was. But they’ve got details on the type of weapon used and where the gunman was located and all that rubbish that I frankly do not give a toss about.” He’s frustrated. Exhausted. “Sherlock, are you planning on looking into this? Are you going to help with the investigation?”

I’d been wondering that myself. Haven’t brought it up for obvious reasons, but I do feel quite compelled to have a look at whatever building the sniper was set up in, as well as David Evans’ flat. Would like to search Mary’s flat as well, but I can’t imagine John would be thrilled with the idea. It’s all a bit too close to home. If I’m going to keep John safe, I need data. Need to find out who did this and if they’ll be looking for him next. “Do you want me to?”

“Not really, no,” A long sigh. He sits up, turns toward me on the bed. “I’d rather pretend it isn’t happening at all. But I suppose the sooner it’s solved, the sooner we can put it behind us. And word on the street is you’re somewhat decent at this sort of thing,” A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. Cute, John. Belittling my genius for your own amusement, how clever. “What do you want to do though? Are you ready to jump into a case?”

“This isn’t just any case, John. I’m concerned for your safety above anything else. I’m just not sure whether we should prioritize finding the identity of Mary’s shooter or staying out of sight. I don’t plan on going anywhere without you, whatever we decide.” That’s a given. I won’t be running off to investigate anything without him. And if he feels safer in the flat, then we stay.

He grabs my hand, then. Fingers threaded through mine. Appears to be thinking it all over. “Well we can’t just hide here for the rest of our lives,” A sigh.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Do you want to have a look ‘round the flat, then? Mary’s flat, I mean? Maybe you’ll have better luck seeing who she really was. Clearly I was blind to it.” Again you surprise me, John.

“Everyone in her life was blind to it.”

“Yeah, but we _ lived together _. For months. I never even suspected.” He’s angry with himself. As if he should have known. As if anyone could have.

“John, some people learn to be quite adept at hiding who they really are,” I should know. “No one was going to see anything she didn’t want them to. Not even you.”

He unlaces our fingers, lays my hand palm-up on his thigh. “You’re talking about yourself,” Looking down, he traces shapes on my palm with the pads of his fingers. “You mean that I couldn’t see who you really were either, before.” I say nothing, watching the movement of his fingertips on my skin. “You’re right about that. I like to think I saw more than most. But I never could have imagined this.” He looks up at me then.

“No. I couldn’t have either.” Couldn’t have imagined you’d want to know this side of me, John. No one had ever tried, before you.

He lifts my hand to his lips, a soft kiss to my palm. “Well, I see you now,” A small smile. “Come on, I’ll start a pot of coffee. You can have first shower.”

✹

Showered, caffeinated and full of toast, we now stand at the door, sliding arms into coats. We decided over breakfast not to speak to any press until after Mary’s case is behind us. Mycroft’s men have kept the reporters from camping outside our door, so we don’t need to concern ourselves with them just yet anyway.

_ You haven’t sent over any new information on Mary Morstan. SH _

_ Am I to assume there is none? SH _

_ Nothing to speak of. _

_ How is that possible? SH _

_ She knew how to bury a trail. _

If the resources available to MI6 have uncovered nothing about Mary’s true identity, I’m not convinced we’ll be able to find much. With nothing to go on but what she left behind in her flat, I fear this excursion may be a lost cause. But we’ve got to try. I glance at John, who’s just fastened his last button. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

We march down the stairs and out the door to the idling car at the kerb. Mycroft isn’t good for much, but his constant interference does save on cab fare. Our armed guards are waiting as we climb in the back. They nod at us, all sleek black suits and slicked back hair. I nod back, flinging my arm around John. We’ve been together mere days and I’m already showing signs of possessive behavior. I wonder if this sort of thing is acceptable. I make a mental note to ask John about his thoughts on public displays of affection. He just looks up at me and smiles.

A twenty-seven minute ride later (So far away from the beating heart of London--you must have been miserable, John.) we arrive at Mary’s flat. Lestrade and his team have come and gone, and the flat has been empty for days. John pulls a jangling keychain from his pocket and lets us in the front door.

My most prominent thought as I glance around the room is that I cannot see John in this place at all. I see none of his abundant compassion in these beige walls or faux wood floors. The stiff grey couch and the wallpaper behind it speak not of the man at my side. Neither the armchair in the corner nor the rug on the floor show an ounce of his warmth. 

I look at him now, standing in this place he reluctantly chose as his home, and see exactly the state I left him in when I fell off that roof and out of his life. I wondered once--staring at the back of his head on that bench by the lake--if he had been lost, as I had been. I see clearly now that he had.

No, there is not an ounce of my John in these cookie cutter walls. This is, in fact, the cheap facade of a woman trying to hide behind a half-formed persona and an unassuming life. Desperately aspiring to be forgettable. Maybe we’ll find something here after all.

John looks over and catches me staring at him. “It’s odd to be here, now,” He looks out of place. A fish out of water. “I feel like I’ve spent the last few days slowly walking out of the mist I’d been living in.” That I understand. Straddling reality. Only returning completely now that we’ve anchored each other down.

I step toward him and kiss his temple, hand on his cheek. “I was living in that same haze. I think we--” A soft thump on the floor above. Both our eyes shoot upward, then back at each other, alarmed.

“Shit, Sherlock!” He whispers frantically. “We aren’t even armed. God, I’m out of practice--” I grab him by the arm and pull him straight back out the front door.

“John, even if you were strapped with a bloody machine gun, we wouldn’t be strolling blindly into that room with a sniper at large,” I’m nearly dragging him now, flying back to the car as fast as our feet will carry us. “I’ve only just got you back, not about to put you right in the line of fire,” I fling open the door. “There’s someone--we heard--” Both guards leap out of the vehicle and bolt toward the house.

“Alert him!” The taller of the two shouts to the driver as he makes his exit.

I push John into the vehicle, safely behind the bullet-proof glass Mycroft has fit his entire fleet with. The driver is speaking rapidly into his phone as he pulls away from the kerb and speeds off. We pull over several blocks away and a moment later a single police car flies by, sirens blaring. My phone vibrates.

“Mycroft.”

“Are you both safe?”

“Yes. Update?”

“No word from my men on the scene. Local police should be arriving shortly, and I’ve dispatched a team as well. Did you see anything?”

“Nothing useful, we’d only just gotten in the door. A sound upstairs. We retreated immediately.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” And with that swift goodbye, he hangs up.

“Well that was about the last thing I expected to happen today,” John has been watching me carefully, taking in every word. “Any guesses on who the hell was in my bedroom?” It’s not your bedroom anymore, John. I let it slide.

“Haven’t the faintest,” I can only hope our sniper is dim enough to take up residence in the home of the woman he recently murdered on the street. Unlikely. “Perhaps a stray cat--”

“Don’t be an idiot,” John interrupts with a snort. “That was no cat.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” I nod toward the street, as three unmarked black vans speed by. “That’ll be Mycroft’s team of gun-toting lunatics.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” John watches them fly past, with interest.

“Any decent cafés nearby?”

✹

We find ourselves huddled around a small wrought iron table in the back of a stuffy café. I watch John over my espresso as his eyes wander around the room, observing all the idiots going about their boring lives. Letting the days go by. “I used to come here often,” He sounds almost wistful. “Haven’t been in ages. Mary would nag me constantly about spending money at a café when I could be making tea at home.” He scowls into his Earl Grey. “She was a bloody freelance assassin, she must have had plenty of money. And it’s not like we had combined our finances anyway. Why should she care?” Can’t even begin to speculate. Never met the woman. I deduced fairly quickly, however, that she was naturally unpleasant. Although I may have been a bit biased.

“Perhaps she was gravely concerned about the state of the planet? You really ought to be more aware of your carbon footprint, John.” He huffs out a surprised bark of laughter, eyes widening.

“You know what a carbon footprint is? Thought you’d delete something like that the moment it reached your ears.”

“What can I say, I have deep feelings for Mother Earth.”

He’s giggling now, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.” I smirk. An idiot indeed. My phone rattles dramatically against the metal table. I swoop it up, put it on speakerphone.

“News?”  


“We’ve apprehended an armed male, half a block from the flat. He took out both of my men that were first on the scene with gunshot wounds to the head. A non-fatal shot to a member of the local police force that had arrived shortly after. The team I had dispatched arrived in time to witness the suspect fleeing the flat and were able to corner him nearby after a short chase. He’s in custody now. So far has said nothing.” John and I exchange a wary glance.

“Has he been identified?”

“Not yet.”

“Anything else?”

“Two USB sticks were found on his person.”

“And?”

He pauses. “Both are labeled with the letters AGRA. No confirmation as of yet, but the acronym is associated with a known group of agents that disappeared from our radar a few years back.”

“Agents?”

“Assassins.”

“The contents of the USB drives?”

“One is encrypted, we have a team working on it now.”

“And the other?”

He sighs. “The other is empty.”

✹

“What do you make of all this?” We’re back on the road, headed to New Scotland Yard, where the suspect is currently being held. Lestrade claims to have his best people questioning the man, but I have no doubt he’ll keep his lips firmly shut. If that remains so, my brother will have him whisked away, questioned in a less subtle manner, and all traces of his existence removed no matter the outcome. He’s responsible for the deaths of two of Mycroft’s men, and the consequences for such an action are no small thing. I’d like to get in a room with him before any of that happens.

“Mm, not sure. Flash drives, really? Sounds like the plot to one of your witless mystery novels.” I smirk and glance at him without turning my head.

He punches my arm, lightly. “Prat,” Something shifts in his eyes, then. “Can’t remember the last time I picked up anything like that, actually. Haven’t been much for detective stories the past two years, as it turns out.” Oh.

Caught me a bit off guard with that one. I furrow my brow, unsure how to proceed. Perhaps this is how it is now. Constantly haunted by the woes of our past. Thrown for a loop by an offhand comment here, an innocent question there--John interrupts this melancholy train of thought by sliding over and leaning against my side. Drops his head to my shoulder.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. All fine. I didn’t mean to send you spiraling into the abyss,” Evidently my thoughts are--yet again--plastered across my face for John to read freely. He sighs. “I need to be better about keeping my head in the present. I have everything I’ve ever bloody wanted and I keep bringing up useless details from the past.”

“The details aren’t useless, John,” Painful, but relevant. “I want to hear them. I am loath to admit it, but we’ve been putting off a conversation that needs to be had. Moving forward we have got to be able to understand each other at our low points. And for that to happen we’ll have to talk about our time apart.”

I feel him nod against my shoulder. “Yes. All right, yes.” He snakes his arm through mine and holds on.

✹

Shoulder to shoulder, we stroll through the doors of the Yard. Lestrade is waiting for us in the lobby, chatting animatedly with the woman at the front desk. He spins around and beams when he sees us. “All right, you two? Can you believe this? Just like old times.”

“Considering we’re here to interview John’s lover’s supposed executioner, not quite,” John glares at me. _ Bit not good _. “But--ah--I catch your meaning, it’s good to be back.”

“She wasn’t my _ lover _. Not anymore.”

“No? Had you two split, then? I hadn’t heard,” Lestrade says distractedly, glancing around as Donovan strides toward us.

“He’s not saying a word, Boss. It’s like he’s retreated into his own head. Seems well practiced at the art of interrogation evasion,” She glances over, eyes roaming over John and I briefly. And then: “Nice to see you boys together again. Knew something as tedious as death couldn’t part the two of you.” My eyes widen of their own accord and John makes a small sound of surprise as she smirks back at us. “Don’t look so shocked, I’ve learnt my lesson. You’re a posh wanker, but you’re not entirely full of shit. Who knew?” And with that, she stalks off, back where she came from.

John turns slowly to face me, eyebrows raised. Lestrade snorts. “She and Anderson got dragged through some real shite while you were--ah--away. Not that I’m dismissing their actions. And I’m not innocent either. But you had a lot of defenders, you know,” He nods at John, then turns back to me. “Once your name was cleared, Anderson was sacked. Good riddance, really. But Donovan wasn’t so easily replaced. And honestly I’m glad for it, she’s made for this work.”

“This is all very illuminating, but can we get some face time with our suspect before my brother sends him off into the ether?”

“Right, of course. Let’s go, then.” As Lestrade turns away, I look back at John.

“Defenders?” He immediately looks down to hide the flush rising up his cheeks.

“The blog, you know. I couldn’t just stay silent. Had a pretty strong opinion on the matter, if you’ll recall,” He’s shuffling his feet, clearly anxious. “Anyway, it wasn’t just me, there were loads of people who knew you weren’t actually a fake. Anderson started a bloody club to discuss exactly that. Well, that and their theory that you weren’t dead. Which obviously they were right about…” He trails off. I want to kiss the tension right off of his face. But that’s not on, is it? Still not clear what his stance is on such public displays. I settle for lightly squeezing the back of his neck, and he leans into me, briefly. Bumping his shoulder against my chest. A shy smile, then.

“Come along, John,” I rest my hand on his back and guide him toward the elevator where Lestrade is waiting, eyebrows slightly raised. “Let’s go have a chat with an assassin.”

✹

_ Gained access to encrypted USB drive. _

_ Suspect’s name Ajay Dhawan. Confirmed member of AGRA. _

_ Blank drive has no trace of past content, appears to be unused. Almost certainly a decoy. _

_ Obviously. SH _

_ Anything of use on the encrypted drive? SH _

_ See for yourself. _

_ Take the car to my office at your earliest convenience. _

_ Don’t be tedious, I’m busy. SH _

_ Your planned interrogation is futile. _

_ See you soon. _

I roll my eyes. “Mycroft?” John is watching me with a grin on his face.

“Unfortunately, yes. Evidently there’s information on the flash drive that we absolutely must see for ourselves.”

“Oh good. Haven’t been to the Diogenes in awhile.”

“I was hoping to never step foot inside the Diogenes again.”

“Oh come on. We can see how far into the Oath of Allegiance we can get before being forcibly hauled off to the Stranger’s Room. Could be dangerous.” His eyes sparkle menacingly, savage blue. My heart expands in my chest, seeing him like this. A bit of the soldier shining through. Have barely caught a glimpse of that part of him in recent days, and it causes a wicked flurry of warmth to shoot through my ribcage and straight to my groin. I feel a godless grin spreading slowly across my face and John stares fearlessly back at me, responding with a smirk full of heat and promise.

Lestrade clears his throat. It occurs to me that we’ve been staring intently at one another for considerably longer than is appropriate considering the setting. John snaps his eyes away as his face reddens. Anger? Holds his chin up in defiance. “Yes?” His voice commanding, dangerous. A light rage seems to be suddenly simmering beneath his skin. Why?

I turn to Lestrade in time to see him drop any ideas he may have had about theorizing the nature of our relationship. “We--ah--they’re ready for you. If you’d like to go in now.”

“Fantastic. John?” We head off after Lestrade to the interview room. I have been considering our options as far as interrogation strategies go, and have decided on a direct approach. If he’s the man who murdered Mary, and I’m almost certain that he is, our best chance at getting him to speak is, well, John.

Donovan and another officer I’ve either never met or have since deleted are standing outside the room. They look up as we approach. “What’s the plan here, Freak? We’ve been at it for hours and haven’t gotten a single word from the man.”

“Let’s retire that nickname, Sally. Bit uninspired at this point, don’t you think?” John bites out this touching display of defense before I can even formulate a retort. “And we can probably go ahead and stop questioning Sherlock’s ability to severely outwit the entire Met, while we’re at it.” His tone is clipped, unforgiving.

I’m shocked into a nervous huff of laughter by this unexpected outburst. Something’s got John’s hackles up and it’s a sight to behold. I peer over at him, trying to parse out his sudden shift in mood. Sally narrows her eyes at me, but then turns to John and nods, stiffly. “Right. Old habits, you know…”

“Let’s just get this over with,” He looks up at me then. _ Ready? _ And my hand resumes its place on his back as we head through the door.

✹

“Do you know who we are?” I demand without preamble. The sight that greeted us as we marched through the door was of a man looking discouragingly worn down and defeated. Slumped in a plastic chair, arms hanging between his knees. Cuffs and chains connecting ankles to wrists, his head bowed to the floor and eyes closed tight. No response. “Ajay. Do you know who this is?”

At the sound of his name, his lids flicker open to carefully peek up at us. His eyes roam over my face with no reaction whatsoever. He looks bored and detached from his unfortunate reality. Can hardly blame the man. When his eyes lock on John’s, however, he abruptly sits up straight, plastic chair wobbling precariously. “You’re John Watson.”

John glances over at me, expression alarmed but not entirely surprised. “Um. Yes.”

“You know my name. How?” Ajay directs this question at me.

“Flash drive,” I say simply.

“Shit,” He hangs his head again. “You’re not bluffing? Tell me what you know.”

“AGRA, assassins, etcetera. Boring. You know John how, exactly?”

He huffs. “Is that not obvious?”

John cuts in. “You’d been stalking Mary, then? If that’s the case, I was probably pretty hard to miss. Considering what I now know about her, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised someone shot her. But please, enlighten us. Why?”

He’s shaking his head, eyes still on the ground below. “You keep calling her Mary. You don’t actually know anything at all, do you?” He looks up questioningly, scowling.

“We know that you’re a dead man walking--well, not _ walking _ per se--” I pause for effect, look down my nose at him where he’s hunched in his plastic chair. “--and we know that nothing you say can change that, as you set those wheels in motion when you murdered two MI6 agents in a misguided attempt at escape.”

He stares up at me, all traces of indignation wiped from his face. “You’re right. It doesn’t bloody matter anyway. I set out to take her down and I have,” Shakes his head once, as if trying to physically clear his mind. “Were you able to crack both USB drives then?”

John and I exchange a look. I'd thought about the decoy drive at length after Mycroft's texts and had planned on trying to probe for answers as to why he was carrying both. But if he wasn’t even aware that one of the drives was blank, then--

”_ Oh. _Obvious. You were in Mary’s flat specifically to obtain that flash drive. The both of you, as well as the other members of your little team, I presume, carried them as some sort of pledge to keep your mouths shut about your extracurricular activities. Mutually assured destruction, is that it? But Mary, slippery snake that she was, kept a decoy drive tucked away in her flat for just such an occasion. The real drive is probably off in a vault somewhere, locked away safely as such an object should be.” Ajay’s expression has turned mutinous. Fists clenched, eyes wild. “But why kill her? Surely she didn’t open her mouth knowing full well the rest of you hold the key to her demise. Another terrible misdeed, then. Hmm--”

“_ She betrayed us!” _ This comes out as a deafening roar, Ajay attempting to stand but hindered by his shackled limbs. “She _ sold us out! _ An ambush. The rest of the team dead. Left me for dead as well,” Tears streaming silently down his cheeks now. “I’ve spent years imprisoned, interrogated, tortured. _ The English Woman _, they called her.”

“So you broke free, tracked her down,” John’s expression has been of utter shock throughout these revelations. “Stalked her for a bit, shot her in the head. Right.” He turns his head away now, staring at the opposite wall.

“She deserved what came to her. She destroyed the rest of us.”

“You’re a bloody assassin by trade. Forgive me if my sympathy is limited.” John barks out.

“You’re a soldier, what’s the difference?” At this, John’s head snaps up, eyes boring through Ajay with an intensity few witness in a lifetime. He opens his mouth to speak, then abruptly turns around, walks straight out the door and slams it shut with a thunderous crack, the sound reverberating through the room leaving Ajay looking stunned.

Without hesitation I fly out the door, dodging a dumbfounded Lestrade on the way. I see John rounding the corner at the end of the hall, so I sprint in his direction, mind spinning, trying to process how this went so wrong so quickly. I catch up with him a moment later as he starts toward the elevator. Grabbing his arm, I spin him around to look at me. “John?!” I’m a bit panicked, I realize, my heart pounding dangerously against my chest. As he turns to face me, his eyes full of fury, I can only shrink back, thinking of the rage and fear and whips and chains that gave me this recurring panic in the first place. I take a step back and whatever he sees on my face causes his expression to shift instantly to one of horror and regret. He covers his face with his hands, then drops them, steps forward and pulls me into a tight embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” He sobs into my neck, arms squeezing firmly around my waist. “God, I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. Christ.”

“John, what is this? What’s happened?” My arms are lying useless at my sides, so I twist them up behind his shoulders to cup my hands around his nape. I lean back within the circle of his arms to look at him. He’s turned away, won’t meet my eyes. I slide my hands up, holding his head gently between them. Thumbs brushing his temples and my fingers tracing slowly through his soft hair. I tilt his head back slightly, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Tell me, John.”

He looks devastated. What am I missing here? “I’m sorry,” More apologies. I don’t need them, John. “I--” He looks at me pleadingly, shakes his head minutely. _ Not here _.

“Home,” I grab his hand and stride straight into the elevator. We ride silently down, down, then walk purposefully out the doors to our idling car at the kerb. “Baker Street,” I say swiftly to the driver, squeezing John’s hand that I’ve yet to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, none of the things that lead Sherlock to realize that Vivian Norbury is actually _The English Woman_ happen. Obviously for whatever reason Ajay has managed to track down Mary much earlier than in the timeline of the show. So she isn't around to casually mention that _receptionists always know everything_, and nobody mentions ammo/amo. Soooo no one has any reason to question any of it and Mary takes the blame to the grave. Vivian can go on living her life in the cottage she bought with her betrayal. _Whoops._


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An explanation for why things have been so intense between them, and an overdue conversation. Lots of dialogue here, John goes deep.
> 
> **Allow me to warn you:**
> 
> This chapter got a bit intense. Mentions of suicidal thoughts. All pretty much consistent with canon, but there's no levity about it here. And also intense, wild sex. If you want to avoid any of that, go ahead and skip this chapter entirely.

Once we’ve arrived at 221B, John drops my hand and heads straight for the loo. I hear water running for quite some time, and just as I begin to consider knocking, he emerges. His eyes are a bit puffier and his hair tousled in the front, as if he’d had it clutched between his fingers. I lean against the wall, watching him from across the hallway, waiting. Your move, John. Whatever you need from me, here I am.

“Come on, then,” He nods toward the bedroom. I follow. It’s only mid-afternoon, but we climb into bed, strip down to our pants without a word and reunite in the middle, face to face. The duvet rests over our hips, and we’ve left a two foot expanse between us. An unspoken agreement for space. John quickly reaches out and circles his fingers around my wrist, bringing my hand over to his side of the divide, bridging the gap. He holds my fingers lightly and looks up. Our eyes lock, and I stare back helplessly. Lost in the cerulean pools I’ve come to love so dearly. And I wait.

“I have something I want to say to you. You won’t like it, but please listen,” I nod, turn my hand so I can softly squeeze his fingers. He takes a deep breath. “Things have been a bit too close to the surface today. You noticed right away, long before I snapped. I could see it in the way you were looking at me. It all came up when Lestrade interrupted us. Irrational, but that’s what happened. And then with Ajay when the dam broke and I almost took it all out on you--” He swallows. “You were right, we’ve been putting off a conversation. It’s time for me to start talking.” There’s a familiar dread lightly roiling in my gut, but I’m listening, John. Whatever this is, I’m listening now.

“About—about two months after you died, I walked to Regent’s Park, to the lake where you found me the other day. The same spot, Sherlock. I sat on that bench for hours and hours that day and thought of you. The same thoughts I’d been having since the moment you’d jumped. Over and over in my head, relentless and overwhelming. You’d be there, in my mind, just laughing at something stupid. Or scowling at something that confused you. Calling me an idiot. Yelling at me from across the room to make tea. All of it. Would try to pretend you were really there. Just beyond my reach. Could almost believe it sometimes. But not for long, because with any good memory came this deep, horrible rage. Rage directed inward, at myself.

He swallows. “I  _ hated  _ myself. Every day, every second that there was a lull in my thoughts I’d start playing our last moments on a loop. Over and over. That final day—I said  _ horrible  _ things to you, to my best friend. To the person I loved more than anything and who everyone else had just turned their backs on. And then I  _ left _ . And if I’d--if I’d taken a second to think, I’d have seen that it was a trick. But I didn’t think, didn’t see, I just left. And by the time I realized what a fool I was, I found you standing there ready to jump to your death. I thought I had failed some great cosmic test and let you trick me into leaving you alone long enough to kill yourself. Because everyone else had turned their back on you, and—and now I had too,” 

John is openly crying now, his words choked, caught in a gasping sob. Hot tears stream thickly down my cheeks too--it’s more clear to me than ever that I let him down in every way.  _ John _ , I’m sorry. “I had my gun—I—I had gone there that day to—“  _ No. _ His breath hitches now. Chest heaving too hard to speak. His pain has crawled under my skin and I’m sick with it. I can feel it as if it’s my own.  _ What do I do, John _ ? My hands on his face now, willing him to calm down. He’s peering into my eyes, a silent plea.  _ Just listen.  _ He needs to get this out. 

He keeps his eyes locked on mine as a long moment passes, and when his breathing slows enough to continue, he does. “I had gone there that day to finish it,”  _ No,  _ John. “I was lost. Irreparably, I thought. I had failed the man I love and there was nothing I could do to fix any of it. You were gone. Unreachable.” He takes a deep breath, in, out. I’m quietly sobbing, barely holding it together. Clinging to his hand in the space between our bodies. “I had my Sig. In my jacket pocket, had my hand on it every second I sat there. Hours. I felt trapped by my own regret and rage, and I couldn’t see an end to that. There was no one around, no one anywhere near me. It would have been easy,” 

He loosens his grip on my hands to slide his fingers to my wrists, resting on my pulse points, to feel my beating heart. A reminder. “But when I had begun to make my peace with it, all I found there was an overwhelming sense that I was letting you down again.” He moves a bit closer to me, slides his hands up my arms, across my shoulders. Back down to rest both palms against my heart. “I thought then of my life before I found you, sitting alone on my bed every night, holding my gun. You had shown up and handed me another chapter of life then, saved me over and over. And there I was again, alone with my gun. Planning to throw away everything you gave me,” He kisses my jaw. “I threw the Sig in the lake,” 

He hitches a leg around mine, pulls us closer together. Leans back to look at my tear soaked face. “I walk through that park every day, Sherlock, the same paths, same gardens. Over and over. But I hadn’t gone anywhere near that bloody bench again until the day you found me there,” hands slide down to my waist, brushing up, down. Comforting. “When you sat down next to me I thought I had finally been taken by the madness I had felt since the day I stood at your grave and asked you to stop being dead. A feeling in the back of my mind that I could see you again if I just made it through one more day,” his hands glide up my body, cup the sides of my neck, my face. “But then I touched you and you were really there,” Barely a whisper. “And it was like a confirmation of every feeling I thought had been madness. An explanation for a connection I still felt to a dead man. I had been just  _ waiting,  _ just letting the days go by. For two years,” He kisses my forehead. Right cheek, left. “Waiting for you to come back to me,” wraps his arms around my neck, pushes his fingers up into my hair. Lips against my ear, “It was worth it. For this, it was worth it.”

✹

My chest heaves, up, down, against John’s as my mind reels outward, ribbons of thought unspooling rapidly in every direction. I think of how connected I still felt with John, miles and oceans, mountains, valleys, and  _ years  _ between us, still tethered together through distance and time. Straddling reality, existing in a haze, his voice in my head and his presence in the world the only things keeping one foot on the ground. Keeping me moving forward through the nightmare of our time apart. 

I think too of John, lost, reaching out for me as if I were there, playing memories in his mind. Just as I had. Swallowed up by regret, feeling like I’d played him for a fool and only hating himself for it. My John, enduring a misery he saw no end to, letting the days go by, holding on to an irrational hope for reasons he could not explain.

We’d been two men, a world apart, clutching on to a love profound enough to survive such a separation. The memory of a time shared, willing us to live another day. Over and over. And existing apart--just that: existing--until we could begin to live again, together. And now, a new chapter.

My arms are wrapped so tightly around John’s body that I have to will myself to loosen my grasp. The tears are still coming, but now there’s a thick, molten heat looming over us. John’s words have soaked into my skin and set it on fire. All of our previously unfathomable pain brought right to the surface and infused with the seemingly bottomless well of love we’ve found in each other. I feel completely raw. Ripped open and exposed. And  _ hard. _

His breath against my ear, each puff sending sparks across my skin. His hands have stilled in my hair, chest heaving against mine. He doesn’t move his arms from around my neck, but leans back slowly, locks eyes with me. My heart lurches in my chest. I feel his erection heavy against my hip. The flicker of heat I glimpsed earlier has returned, and now there’s a question in his eyes.  _ Yes, _ John.

Without a word, I slip my hands down his pants, grab his arse,  _ hard,  _ and thrust my hips up forcefully to meet his. The friction between our cocks sends a flare of red through my vision. We both cry out. I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life, electricity blazing through my groin and coiling up, up around my ribs to strangle my heart. I feel filthy, animalistic, I want to hold John to me and rut against him until I explode. And from the frenzied movements of his hips, we are of one mind on the matter. I roll us over, John pinned beneath me, arms still around my neck as if afraid I’ll fly away. I rut furiously against him, the cotton of our pants only adding to how depraved this feels. It’s incredible. It’s healing. A heavy tenderness fused with all-consuming raw heat. 

John and I have found a sort of feverish rhythm, each thrust bringing our erections together and sending shockwaves outward through my body, alighting my flesh from head to toe. He rolls us back over so we lie on our sides, his wet cheek still pressed against mine. He hitches his right leg over my hip, bringing us somehow closer yet, bodies fusing together as we drag our hips with frenetic abandon. My heart is in my throat, flesh about to combust, I’m tipping over the edge. I hear John shout out now with every thrust of our bodies, and soon he’s yelling, wailing in my ear, sobbing and shaking as his body goes rigid, then jerks violently as he comes undone and erupts between us. I follow him over the edge. Jump, fall, but together this time. Into the warm abyss. I shudder, go still, and then shatter. I’m shaking, shaking, now. Our arms lock us together as we sob and heave, fresh waves of tears pouring down our faces.

“I love you so much,” John gasps between breaths, lips against my ear. “I love you so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea this story was headed in this direction, but I can say I relate to both of these characters on a deep level, which is why I'm writing about them. And a lot of my shit came out through them. I would love to hear any feedback on this chapter.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun one. ♡

I awaken with my face pressed into John’s abdomen. I’m splayed out perpendicular to his body, feet hanging off the edge of the bed. Left hand on his belly, and the right lying between us, his fingers softly tracing lines down each of mine. I turn my head, pillowed on taut muscles hidden just beneath the flesh of his stomach, and look up at him. He’s watching me, head cocked sideways on the pillow. The sun is setting behind him. Early evening, then. “Hello,” I rumble.

“Hi,” A whisper.

It’s difficult to know what to say after the experience we shared today. I feel closer to him than ever before, but still, when it counts the most, I struggle to find the words. He spares me the attempt--

“Sherlock--” He swallows thickly. “Thanks--thank you for earlier. For listening. For all of it,” Don’t  _ thank _ me John. Come on. “I feel relieved. It’s a relief.” I do as well. I should tell him that.

“I love you, John,” Is what I say. “I’m so grateful for you,” Is what comes out. And I do. And I am. I should say it more, now that I can.

He smiles. “I love you,” runs his fingers over my wrist, up my arm. “Shall we go out? It’s unlikely we’ll find ourselves on the receiving end of a sniper rifle now. Let’s celebrate?”

I feel a grin spread across my face. The thought of going out on the town with John: my partner, my  _ lover _ , has me delighted, thrilled. No imminent threats on our lives. The threads of healing beginning to wrap warmly around our hearts. Nowhere to be but in each others presence. Relearning our shared language and getting to know the changes in one another, that came to be while we were apart. “All right,” I agree, sitting up and running my palm up his torso, from belly to chest. He shivers, slightly. “Where would you like to go?”

✹

We shower--separately, for expediency’s sake, although I look forward to exploring that particular shared activity--and dress. John digs a sharp grey suit out of the boxes of his belongings that we’ve yet to deal with, and emerges from the loo looking as lovely as I’ve ever seen him. I’m dressed in my usual black, with a new deep green button-up that appeared when Mycroft returned my belongings. A note was attached: a gift from my parents. I should see them soon, go home for a weekend visit. Perhaps John would like to join me. That’s something we’ll do now, right? Meet each other’s families? The thought brings a burst of warmth to my chest.

John didn’t have a preference on where we dine, so I’ve decided to take him to a cosy and exclusive French lounge that I know from my time before John. They’ve got an exceptional wine list and authentic food that will cater to his surprisingly sophisticated palate. Plus the owner owes me a favor, so I was able to get us a table tonight.

Our security detail is still firmly in place outside the flat--Mycroft has insisted they remain until the case is well and truly closed--and there’s a car waiting for us already once we’ve gone downstairs to hail a cab. Slightly concerning, as we hadn’t requested one, but my brother always has had ways of knowing things he shouldn’t.

When we arrive at the restaurant, John stops outside the front door and smiles up at me. He presses his lips to my shoulder, then takes my arm as we walk into the bustling lounge. We’re greeted enthusiastically and directed to our table in the corner. The place is buzzing with energy--waitstaff weaving around tables of laughing customers, chatting animatedly and clinking their wine glasses. The sounds and smells of an accomplished kitchen wafting out through the crowd. The vivacity of life, crackling in the air around us, bringing up a wave of gratitude and relief to be a part of this world again.

We sit at our little table, taking it all in. Many people glance our way. I suppose we’re easily recognized these days. It’s easy to forget that the whole of London knows us by name. I’m suddenly a bit self conscious, unsure how John feels about being  _ seen _ . I’ve meant to ask him his thoughts on the matter, but now here we are, in the midst of it all. Lost in thought, I’m startled back to reality by John reaching up and smoothing his fingers over my furrowed brow. “It’s all right,” he says softly. “If it’s okay with you, I want people to know. I want everyone to know. I’m not interested in hiding.” 

I look up at him then, at his smiling blue eyes. “All right, then,” I say, and I kiss him.

His hands come up to my cheeks, fingers lightly resting against my flushed pink skin, and he returns the kiss. Softly, gently. Pulls back a bit, then places another light peck on my lips and we break apart. I can feel eyes on us from every direction, but I don’t look up, just smile down at the table as John takes my hand and holds it tight.

We eat. We’ve accepted the pairing recommendations from our waiter, and the wine and food is all lovely, as expected. Our conversation flows easily throughout dinner, and instead of sticking to recalling our adventures of the past, this time we talk about the future. I tell John about wanting to visit my parents. Admit to him that yes, they knew I was alive all along--and, surprising me again, he understands. He says of course he wants to come with me, that he wants me to meet Harry, too. Says he’ll text her tomorrow, that she’s still drinking but has learned how to behave in his presence. 

We discuss accepting the fact that it’s time to make a press statement about my return--it’s been five days (Already five days? Only five days? Time is a fickle concept.)--as well as everything that’s happened with Mary’s case. At least the aspects that will be made public. Mycroft will brief us on those details. I tell him it’s important to me that we do these things together, now. That I didn’t want to speak to anyone without him by my side. He says that he will be there for me in any way he can.

Three glasses of wine deep, we sit finishing our shared dessert. Forks lazily scraping the last remnants from the plate. “What’s next, then?” John asks.

How do I begin to answer that question? “Next?”

“Tonight. Where to next? I’m not done looking at you in that suit, yet,” I grin back at him. Oh.

“Your choice, this time. You lead, I follow.”

He likes this suggestion. A wicked smirk. “Well all right, then. But you have to at least pretend to like it.”

✹

We’ve hopped back into our sleek black ride, and I immediately try to deduce where we’re going based on the block John told the driver to drop us at. It’s a part of town I’ve roamed through many times in my explorations of London, but I can’t recall ever stepping foot inside a single door. A twelve minute ride later, we jump out and John immediately takes my hand and walks confidently down the street to our right. He stops outside a bright blue door, reminiscent of his lovely eyes, but weathered and worn from the elements and from the hands of those who pass through it. The door is unmarked, but there are muffled sounds of life and laughter sneaking out through the cracks. And when John pushes it open and we step inside, he looks perfectly at home.

Unlike Mary’s beige-walled flat that held nothing of John’s spirit, this place is crammed with personality, overflowing with the kind of character I see in him. Love about him. I stare around, wide eyed, soaking it all in. It’s a pub, clearly. But aside from the standard long, wooden bar, lined with worn brown leather stools, it looks more like someone’s living room. Mismatched couches and armchairs are staged in various arrangements, filled with groups of friends chatting comfortably, each in their own little nook of the place. The walls behind the bar are lined with mirrors, but also with shelves packed full of ephemera--small items left behind by decades of people passing through. Leaving their mark. Proof that they were here, in this corner of the world. Miniature cars, a bowling pin, a deer’s skull. Tons of tiny knick knacks, sprawled out across the shelving. One mirror half covered in stickers and postage stamps. Hundreds of keys hanging on hooks on one wall, another covered entirely with postcards from all over the world. Impaled on the heads of nails, five cards deep. There must be thousands of them. Who sent them here? John is watching me, amused. I turn my gaze away from the objects before me to meet his eyes.  _ What is this place? _

“Always wanted to bring you here, before,” He leads me over to the bar, orders two pints of cider. “I love it here,” Drinks in hand, we find two arm chairs, drag them close together at an angle and perch comfortably, knees knocking together. “It’s one of London’s few well kept secrets. I always thought you’d have a riot trying to deduce where the bloody hell all of this came from.” He takes a sip. “But we didn’t really do things like this then, did we?” He smiles a bit sadly.

“No, I suppose not,” There were a lot of things I didn’t let myself do then. “You’re right, though. I’m completely charmed by it. You fit in well here.”

“My parents owned it for awhile, actually. They bought it in the ‘90s and ran it for over a decade. I spent a lot of time here then. They were the lunatics who started all this mad collecting. Hoarding, really,” He laughs, and the corner of his eyes crinkle as he looks over at me. “Encouraging people to bring things in. It’s great though, I think. There’s a certain feeling here that I haven’t found nearly anywhere else. The first time I stepped foot in 221B, I felt it.” Oh, John.

I grin at him. “Animism.”

“Hmm?” One eyebrow lifts as the other furrows. Really, the most expressive face. He’s perfect.

“A belief that all objects have their own lives, histories, spirits. That they give off a unique essence,” Both brows retreating up into his hairline now.

“You believe that?” He splutters incredulously.

“Of course not, it’s religious nonsense. But I can appreciate that objects that are well-loved have a certain...something,” I won’t be telling him that two years ago I nicked one of his journals—jammed full of case notes and grocery lists from our first year together—and brought it with me abroad for that very reason. Still have it. He’ll never find it. “Residual energy, perhaps. You know how I feel about the skull,” I smirk.

“Ah yes. Your best friend, until me.”

“A poor substitute for a true friend, I’ve learned. But he has his charms.”

“Inability to talk back being one of them, I suppose?” a slow grin spreading across his face.

“The only one, really. Come to think of it.” He giggles. God, I’m glad to have this back. The easy banter. We’ve made such progress in five days.

“I’m well on my way to tipsy, I’d say. One more here and then home?”

“Perfect,” He’s perfect.

✹

One hour, one pint of cider and one disastrous game of darts later, we find ourselves tucked warmly in the backseat of our car, being chauffeured home. We sit close, leaning on one another. John’s head on my shoulder and my cheek resting on his silver-gold hair. Quiet, calm.

We stumble up the seventeen steps to 221B, laughing at our own lack of coordination and trying to hold each other up.

“Tea?” John asks as we hang our coats on the hook. Thoughtful. Always.

“All right,” I agree, waltzing toward the fireplace.

Fire lit and tea in hand, we sit in our chairs, watching the flames and stealing glances at each other. Same as it ever was.

“Tonight was so good, Sherlock,” John is looking at me now, a small smile on his face. Contented, at ease. “And earlier as well. I feel like a new person, almost,” He sighs. “Or maybe I just feel like myself again.” Indeed. I can relate.

“We bring out the best in one another, I think. I certainly feel like an improved version of myself, with you,” Something I’ve believed since the day we met. “That was true right from the onset. And now that we’re back in each other’s lives, it’s true once more.”

“Yes,” He swallows. “It was clear from the start.” We stare at each other for a long moment, then fall back into a pensive silence.

I think of everything John said earlier today while wrapped up safe in our little cocoon. I think of how grateful I am for such honesty, how he’s learning to find words for his pain. Soon I will have to do the same. I have much to tell him about my years away, and I know he still has many questions. Soon.

I think of the imminent future: of plans to visit our families together, to give a statement to the world together, to begin the work again together, as a pair. Partners. In every sense of the word. Just what I asked him for: Everything. Everything I’ve quietly pined for for all these years, I now have. 

“Sherlock?” He’s watching me now. Face thoughtful, a small smile playing around his lips. “I want to try something.”

I study him for a moment. A mask of innocence firmly in place, but something behind it that I can’t quite read. Glint of mischief in his eyes. “Go on, then.”

He says nothing, just looks back at me, expression carefully blank. Considering his next move. Then:

He’s slid down to his knees, on the floor at my feet, hands on my thighs and a question in his gaze. He slides his hands up, up, brushes his thumbs against the crease below my hips. My eyes go wide, mouth parted in surprise at the sudden change in atmosphere. He unbuttons my trousers, slowly, watching my face for signs of protest. I have no qualms with what’s happening here, John. None to speak of. A flash of heat shoots through my gut and straight to my groin at the sight of John pulling my zipper down, down, and the buzz of anticipation is spreading throughout my body. He’s tugging at my trousers and pants now, so I lift my hips as he yanks them down and tosses them aside. I’m hardening rapidly as John slides his palms up and down the flesh of my thighs. He eyes my growing erection, looking slightly hesitant now. “You know I haven’t done this before. Obviously,” He says, peering up at me, his hands continuing their exploration, up to my hips, back down my thighs.

“You’ve been on the other side of this scenario, however,” I point out. Many times, surely. I wonder if Mary did this for him.  _ God, _ I need to stop this train of thought immediately.

“True,” He giggles nervously, slides the pad of one finger slowly up my shaft. I shiver violently, remembering the intense reaction my body had the last time I had John’s hands on me like this. I wonder if I’ll ever be used to the feeling. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Yes,” I pant out, watching him closely as he pushes my legs further apart and moves forward into the space between, hands back on my thighs. Then, abruptly and a bit awkwardly, he leans in and runs his tongue up the underside of my now unyielding erection, tracing the path his finger took a moment ago. Immediately my back arches, hips shooting up off the chair. John sits back, a bit startled and a bit smug. He bursts into laughter.

“ _ John.”  _ I whine. I feel a bit light headed now, still buzzed from the cider and wine. My entire body tingles pleasantly as I sit slumped in my chair, chest rising and falling dramatically. 

John laughs and laughs. “Sorry,” he breathes out between wheezing giggles. “I’m sorry,” He rises up on his knees and tugs at my nape to pull our mouths together. He kisses me deeply, sliding his tongue against mine. He breaks free when another bout of laughter bubbles over and he huffs into my mouth, then sits back, nearly doubled over. I just watch him, amused. “I’m nervous!” He explains, exasperated with himself. “And a bit not sober.”

At this, I feel my own rumble of laughter break free of my lips, and the room fills with the sound of our mingled glee. The slight mist of awkwardness that was looming around us has evaporated completely, and I feel nearly euphoric. Sitting here like a daffy fool, naked from the waist down and laughing with my best friend over a blowjob, I wonder how I got so lucky.

John lets out a long sigh, a slow exhale as he regains control of his senses. We share a charged look as quiet falls around us once more. “Right then,” John sits back up on his knees, resuming his place between my thighs. “Let’s get back to it, shall we?”

He leans up and kisses me softly, then sits back and carefully wraps his left hand around the base of my shaft, sending a fresh wave of sparks down to simmer in my groin. He strokes slowly up and down, keeping his grip loose and watching my reactions carefully. I’ve steeled myself this time, knowing what to expect. I close my eyes now, breathing steadily, and focus on his touch.

He continues on like this for a bit, gradually tightening his grip as I acclimate to these new, intense sensations and the novelty of having another person do this for me. When he stops his gentle stroking and asks, “Ready?” I am.

I open my eyes to watch as John keeps his hand in place, then leans over slowly and wraps his lips around the head of my cock, sucking lightly. Oh,  _ God.  _ This feels like nothing I could have predicted. The sight of him like this is too much, too much, so I close my eyes as I let out a breathy moan. Shifting my hips on the chair, I let myself relax, melting further into it. He slides down a bit, taking more of me in, gliding his tongue back and forth experimentally. My breathing is coming out ragged, heart seizing beneath the rise and fall of my chest. This will not last long.

His saliva-slicked lips glide up, down, his tongue relentlessly teasing. Flares of heat shoot up to coil in my gut, igniting there and setting my body ablaze. The mounting pleasure is threatening to overwhelm, and I feel the beginnings of orgasm creeping up on me as I try not to thrust my hips. I run my hand through his hair, and his eyes shift up to my face. “John—“ I gasp out. A warning. He understands. He slides his right hand up to my hip, holding my jerking body in place. I expect him to pull off, but instead he slides his lips to the head of my cock, hand gripping the shaft and stroking up, down. He presses his tongue against my frenulum, then sucks,  _ hard  _ and I’m tumbling, soaring into oblivion. Lost to the world.

As I slip out of my euphoric haze, head slumped back against the chair I’ve bonelessly fused with, I conjure the image of John on his knees, head in my lap, and feel a residual wave of heat spread through my sated limbs. Slowly, I lift my head.

“ _ Fuck _ , John,” He’s always loved it when I curse. A rare occurrence. I peer down at him now, still on the floor, sitting back on his heels. A small, smug smile on his lips.

“God, Sherlock, you’re bloody gorgeous like this,” I roll my eyes. I’ve just ejaculated in his mouth and he’s complimenting me.

“Get up here,” I reach for his arms and hoist him off the floor, pulling him into my lap where he straddles my thighs. “Can I?” He nods as I unfasten his trousers, erection straining against his pants.

“Please,” He breathes. “I nearly had a bloody coronary watching you fall to pieces with my mouth on your cock,” Oh my  _ God. _ I pull his erection free of his pants and wrap my fingers around his shaft, up, down. He’s already teetering on the edge, precum pooling at the head, so I run my palm through it and continue with short, quick strokes. He’s panting hard, now, hands on either side of my neck. He leans his forehead against mine, looking downward. Watching. “Shit,” he breathes, “Oh, God, Sherlock,  _ fuck, _ ” And he erupts in my hand, once, twice. His arms wrap around my neck as he slumps down against me, head dropping to his arm. I rub my hands up and down his back, heels of my palms digging gently into the muscle there as my fingers trace his spine.

I feel the puffs of breath on the side of my face gradually slow as John comes back down to Earth. A small kiss on my cheek, then he leans back to look at me. “Love you, you idiot,” Kisses me, then. Soft, slow. “Let’s go to bed.”


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quality time with siblings. ☂

The following morning is spent putting the flat back in order. It seems that Mrs. Hudson has been spending her days doing our dusting--the surfaces that were covered in it when I first returned are clean and sparkling. She’s also put my books back on their shelves, albeit haphazardly. They’ll need to be re-indexed at some point in the near future, but I can’t be arsed at the moment. My clothing is already in place within the wardrobe. Sock index restored in the top dresser drawer.

The boxes of John’s belongings have sat pushed aside in the living room since they first appeared. He’s been grabbing jumpers and jeans at random the past couple of days. “Sherlock, what’s the plan here?” He’s rummaging through, pulling out pants and vests and tossing them in an empty box. “Do you want me to keep my things upstairs?”

“Obviously not, John, don’t be ridiculous,” As if I haven’t been looking forward to seeing our clothing hanging side by side. His wool jumpers mingling with my silk shirts. “Plenty of space in the wardrobe, and we’ll bring down the dresser from upstairs.” He grins up at me from where he’s crouched over a box.

“It’ll be  _ our  _ room then. Bit exciting, isn’t it?” It is.

I smirk. “I’ve been finding that bed much more inviting now that you’re sleeping in it.”

✹

By the time we’ve got everything situated, it’s approaching one o’clock. “I’m starved,” John says, opening cupboards at random. We’d made coffee and toast for breakfast, but that was hours ago. “Suppose we haven’t got much in besides bread and milk. I can run and do the shopping.” A tiny flurry of panic skitters through my chest at the thought of John going out alone. Ridiculous. Irrational. But we haven’t left each other’s sides in days.

“Could do. Or perhaps we could see if Harry is free for lunch?”

“Sure, yeah. I’d meant to text her today,” He pulls out his phone and taps out a message. Hits send, looks up. “Sure you want to meet her? She’s a handful on the best of days.”

“Of course I do,” After seeing the pub his parents once owned, I can honestly say I look forward to meeting John’s family. Although from what I understand, Harry’s the last of them. He has hardly spoken of her to me, and I haven’t the slightest notion of what to expect--aside from her sexual preference and an affinity for overconsuming alcohol. “Is there a family resemblance?”

John snorts, looks up at me questioningly. “Well we are twins, so yes. Quite.”  _ Twins?  _ This has certainly never come up before.

“You’re joking.”

“ _ How _ do you not know this?” A breathy laugh. “Thought you’d’ve deduced that on day one.”

“You never speak of her,” I shrug. “Haven’t even seen a photo, to my knowledge. Now I definitely want to meet her.” John rolls his eyes. His phone pings once, twice.

“Says she hasn’t eaten and would love to meet you,” He looks doubtful. “I haven’t told her we’re together. Do you mind if we tell her in person?”

“Not at all,” Should I mind? “Is there a chance she’ll be upset?” I hadn’t thought about this, really. Hadn’t considered we may receive a negative reaction from the people in our lives.

“You never know what’s going to upset Harry. But no, I don’t think so. I expect she’ll be right chuffed,” A pause. “She couldn’t stand Mary. Probably saw right through her, now that I think about it. Harry’s sharp like that,” He types out a reply and looks up at me. “And, like the rest of the world, she’s been convinced we were together from the jump.”

✹

We arrange to meet Harry at a diner near her flat. Mycroft has finally pulled our security detail, meaning there’s a flood of reporters present outside 221B once more. We wade through them--it’s the first opportunity they’ve had to catch the both of us--and John smiles half-heartedly at the blinding camera flashes as I wave down a cab. We’ve got a press conference scheduled for Monday--set up by my ever-diligent big brother--and hopefully after the press is able to bombard us with questions there, they’ll give up on swarming the flat.

When we arrive at the diner, Harry is waiting in a large booth by the window. She stands when she sees us, wrapping John up in a tight hug and pecking his cheek. When she turns to me, her face is a complicated mix of emotions. It’s immediately clear that she is indeed John’s twin. Her features are softer, and her chin-length bob of hair is more gold than silver, but the resemblance is quite striking. She’s dressed in tight black jeans and an oversized black sweater. Brown Dr. Marten’s on her feet. No makeup, and she looks youthful for her age, much like John. “Harry,” I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Lovely to meet you at last.”

“Sherlock,” She nods. “Happy to see you’re no longer dead.”

“Harry--”

“John, just let me say something,” She turns to me, expression determined. “Look, I am happy to see you’re alive and well. Really. But I also saw the state you left my brother in for two years--”

“If he hadn’t, I’d be dead,” John cuts in, quickly. “He had a good reason for all of it, and he saved my life doing it. So can we not do the concerned sibling thing?” He looks at her pointedly, waiting. They share a long look, silently communicating. I see a deep familiarity between them. What must it be like to have a twin? To have grown alongside another person, not only in the womb but throughout life? One would think that loneliness would never come, with such a connection, but for John that certainly hasn’t been the case. I’m shaken from my reverie when John nudges my side.

“Sorry?” I hadn’t realized I was being addressed.

John rolls his eyes. “She understands. She’s going to behave, now. Let’s sit.” We move to the booth Harry had claimed, and John and I sit side by side across from her.

“So you’ve been back about a week now, eh? What have you been up to, then? You and my brother back to solving crimes together?” This string of questions gives me pause. The answers respectively are yes, having lots of sex with your brother, and yes. But I can hardly answer honestly. Mary’s death has been kept out of the news thus far, a heavily modified version of events is to be released on Monday morning. Knowing full well that John and Harry haven’t spoken in the last week, it occurs to me that she isn’t aware of anything that’s happened.

“We’ve been on a case of sorts, yes,” I glance at John.  _ Do you want her to know about Mary?  _ And he sighs.

“Look, Harry, a lot has happened in the past few days,” She narrows her eyes at him. “First off--I should mention, um--Mary’s dead.”

“ _ What?”  _ She gapes. The waitress shows up to take our orders, and when it’s my turn I distractedly ask for tea and then randomly choose something off the menu.

“Yeah. It’s, uh--complicated. Turns out she wasn’t who she said she was. Not even close. Her name isn’t even Mary. Haven’t a clue what her real name is, actually,” Right. We never did make it to Mycroft’s office to have a look at the flash drive. “Anyway, she was killed a few days ago and we’ve been working the case. Solved it yesterday.”

Harry looks stunned. Realizing no more information is forthcoming, however, she pulls herself together quickly. “ _ Jesus _ . Well, you know I thought she was a snake anyway,”

“Yes, I’m well aware.”

“Are you, you know, doing all right? It must be a horrible shock.” Oh. Right. We’ve hardly spared a moment to discuss how John is feeling about her death. I am uncomfortably aware now that I haven’t a clue if he’s been quietly mourning her.

Another sigh. “Honestly, Harry, the hardest thing about her death has been wrapping my head around how easily she made a fool of me. I’m not going to elaborate, but she  _ really _ was not the person she wanted me to believe she was,” She’s watching him intently. Genuinely concerned. “I feel some sense of grief for the woman who listened when I felt I couldn’t turn to anyone else. But that woman wasn’t real,” He pauses. “A fake friend helping me cope with a fake death. It’s all a bit jumbled in my head, as you can imagine,” He shrugs.

“Wow,” She says, sympathetically. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, I’ve been fine,” A pause. “More than fine, actually.” He glances over at me with a small grin. Harry tracks this interaction and raises her eyebrows.

“Anything else you wanted to tell me?” Her voice is playful. She is a sharp one indeed. I like her.

He laughs, a large, genuine smile lingering on his face. “Yeah, um--well it’s obvious. Clearly.” He looks over at me again. Slides across the booth to close the distance between us and slips his arm around my waist

“ _ Wow,  _ Johnny, you have had quite the week, haven’t you?”

“It’s been memorable.”

“I’ll bet,” She smirks at him. “And how are you feeling about this new development, Sherlock?”

I smile back at her, feeling light. Relieved. “Grateful,” I say.

✹

Our food is delivered in a timely manner, and as we eat John and Harry chat animatedly about their parents’ old pub. John told her about taking me there, about how it looks largely the same as it did in its heyday.

“I’ll bet some of our shite is still tucked away on those shelves,” Harry says between bites.

“I don’t think anything ever leaves the place, so probably yeah. Some of Dad’s old taxidermy is still on the walls.”

“Oh god, I’d forgotten about all that. The two headed goat?”

“Mm,” John agrees, mouth full of chips. He swallows. “Still there. I used to send postcards every time I left London. Sent a few from Afghanistan, even.”

“Ah yes, your cards full of false cheer. I remember them well.”

“Yeah. Mum and Dad needed them, though.” Harry nods. I watch their back-and-forth with something akin to fascination. They speak so easily, with a clear lifetime of shared memories behind their words. A natural understanding between them, allowing them to move right past drawn-out explanation and straight to comprehension. I suppose Mycroft and I have something similar with our shared talent for deduction. Whatever we have between us is buried under many years of disdain, however.

“Sherlock, what do your parents do?” Harry is looking at me intently. I can honestly say no one has asked me that question in my life.

I clear my throat. “Well, my mother is a published mathematician. Quite a brilliant mind. My father has held a number of professions throughout his lifetime. He ran their local newspaper for a bit. He’s an accomplished pianist. Fancies himself a painter, as well--bit of a renaissance man,” He also fancies himself a moron, but he’s got his own kind of brilliance.

“They sound like quite interesting people,” Harry is really trying to include me in this. 

“They are, yes. I was very fortunate to grow up in a household that exposed me to such variety,” I need to participate in this conversation. A question a normal person would ask, then-- “How did your parents die?” 

John makes a pained sound from his seat on my right. Drops his head in his hands in exasperation (embarrassment?). Harry’s mouth opens in surprise, her eyes widening slightly, but then they crinkle at the corners as she begins to laugh. “Wow, he’s a direct one isn’t he? Can’t say I don’t appreciate that in a man. One of the only things I appreciate about men, actually.” Her laugh sounds like John’s--a light tittering giggle--and she sighs and takes another bite of her club sandwich.

I look over at John, wondering what, exactly, had just happened.  _ Not good?  _ He just breathes out a single huff of laughter, leans against me and says, “You’re an idiot.”

✹

The three of us are huddled in the entryway to the diner. Harry has to head to work soon (_Just got hired at that new cinema down the block. It pays shite, but I can’t afford to be too picky at the mo._) and we’re saying our goodbyes, as common courtesy demands in such a scenario.

“Well Sherlock, I can sincerely say that I am thrilled to have finally met you,” I narrow my eyes a bit, not trusting such enthusiasm being thrown in my direction. She laughs. “You two look good together. John, you’re glowing.”

John’s cheeks turn a shade pinker, but he just rolls his eyes. “Let’s do this more often, Harry. Really. It’s been nice.”

We agree to meet up again soon, and the two of us head off to hail a cab.

“It was nothing interesting, you know,” Unsure what John is referencing, I glance over and wait. “It’s not like they were murdered, or lost at sea,” Ah.

We slide into the cab that’s just pulled up to the kerb, and request to be dropped at the Tesco near Baker Street. Best to get the shopping over with. “I apologize for asking. I hadn’t realized--”

“No, it’s fine. You can ask me anything, any time. It just caught me off guard,” He looks to be considering his next words, how much to divulge. “My mum had a heart attack. She was still relatively young, and Dad took it hard. He drank himself to death a year later.” I watch him carefully for a moment.

“And it’s a difficult subject for you and Harry?”

“Yeah. We were both adults at the time, living our own lives, so it isn’t as if we were overly traumatized by their deaths. But Dad’s alcoholism is a sore subject with Harry. We really just avoid it entirely.”

“I see.” I do. I know the shame that comes with substance abuse. Losing a parent to your vice of choice must be extremely difficult to cope with. I lock eyes with John. He sees my understanding--of course he does--and nods. I take his hand, and we sit in silence for the rest of the trip.

✹

“We have never done this.  _ How _ have we never done this?” We’re strolling the aisles of Tesco, throwing items into a shopping cart, and the domesticity of it all is inescapable. It’s fantastic.

“That would probably be because of my adamant refusal to partake in such mundane activities,” I say, tossing a tin of beans into the cart. “Clearly I had no idea what I was missing out on.”

He glares up at me. “Yes I’d say that’s an accurate assessment, now you mention it.”

“Well, I’ve seen the error of my ways. What’s this?” I’ve picked up a small furry fruit, red in color. Holding it up for John to inspect, he takes it from me and giggles.

“That would be a rambutan,” I raise my eyebrows. “Lets get a few. Wait ‘til you see the inside.”

✹

We arrive back at 221B, bags in hand. Once we’ve got them situated on the kitchen worktop, John begins putting everything in its right place, as I light a fire in the grate. It’s only four o’clock, and we’ve got nowhere to be. Just as I begin to ponder how we’ll spend the evening, I hear a familiar tread on the stairs and let out a groan. John looks up.

“Guess who,” I say, through gritted teeth. He shakes his head and then straightens up. Ready for battle. “Quit dithering outside the door, Mycroft, and come in why don’t you.” He does.

“I wasn’t  _ dithering, _ I happened to have received a very important text message that required response in a timely--”

“Oh, do shut up. Why are you here?”

He purses his lips as he hangs his jacket, props his umbrella against the wall. “I wanted to discuss the upcoming press conference,” he sidles over and sits in John’s chair. I glare.

“Discuss, then.”

“Tea, Mycroft?” Can’t help but abide by the rules of polite society, my John.

“Yes, thank you. We have a prepared statement for you regarding the events of your absence and subsequent return, as well as Mary Morstan’s death and your involvement with the case. But it’s up to you whether you’d like to allow questions from the press.”

“Yes. We’ll allow them.” We’ve discussed this at length, and have decided to address all questions and rumors in one go.

“You realize, surely, that they may be asking some  _ sensitive _ questions.”

“If you’re referring to us being lovers, we have no intention of hiding it.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow at this, but thankfully refrains from arguing the point.

“Very well,” he’s handed a cup of tea and sips it, making a slight face. John looks amused.

“Can we have the USB drive, then?” He asks, nodding at Mycroft’s front pocket. An eyebrow shoots up again--no doubt surprised by John’s observational skills--and he hands it over.

“Ta,” John eyes the flash drive. “Was there anything else?”

Mycroft stands, lips pursed, and prepares to make his leave. He hands John a file folder. “I’ll leave you with the press statements and information on what will be released to the media Monday morning,” He pauses, looking hesitant. “You’re both sure it’s wise to tell the world of your...involvement?”

“Sorry, our  _ involvement _ ?” John’s fists clench dangerously at his sides. Mycroft eyes him warily and takes a slight step back.

“I only mean that it could be detrimental to you, considering your chosen profession.”

“What does that mean, Mycroft? I honestly thought we’d have your support without question. You may be a posh tosser, but you’re no bigot—”

“You misunderstand me, John. Consider the lengths that James Moriarty went to, to torture Sherlock with your implied demise. At the time you were only flatmates and friends. Mere months into your acquaintanceship. If it’s common knowledge that you’re...partners--”

“Yes, yes,” I wave my hand wildly to interrupt this inane conversation. “Please be going now Mycroft, surely you have more time sensitive texts to send.” He shoots me one more displeased look, and then collects his jacket and umbrella.

“Do be careful,” he says ominously, looking down his nose at John, then me, and walks out the door.

“Shit,” John is booting up his laptop, wasting no time on viewing the contents of the flash drive. “He’s got a point, the wanker.”

“He really doesn’t.”

“We’re sure to make more enemies soon enough, Sherlock. Just because Moriarty’s—“

“ _ Think _ , John. My brother is an idiot. He’s correct that we’d only known each other for two months when Moriarty strapped you with Semtex. Even then it was obvious to everyone that you could be used to get to me. It doesn’t matter if our enemies know that we’re together—we could be living on different continents and they’d still hold you hostage to lure me out, now that I'm known to be alive. It’s already common knowledge how I feel about you. May as well be forthright about it,” by the time I finish this little speech, John has stopped messing about with his laptop and is staring up at me.

“All right,” He swallows. “You’re right. I’ll drop it. I want to be up front about it. I’m proud of what we have.” Bit touched by this. I’m proud of it as well. Of him. It’s always been a point of pride that someone as warm and boundlessly loyal as John would accept me so completely.

“Good,” I grin. “So what’s on that bloody flash drive?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂


	13. Thirteen

“_ Rosamund _, really?” We’re scouring the jumble of files in Mary’s folder on the USB drive. Four folders, one for each member of AGRA. Really, could they have come up with a more idiotic means of insurance? “Sounds a bit posh, doesn’t it?”

“Mm,” we sit perched on the couch, huddled together over John’s laptop. I watch now as he scrolls through photos of Mary, hair long and dark, face bright and youthful.

“God, who is this woman? What makes a person choose this as their life?” I look at him, scowling at the images of the true Mary. Rosamund. She was probably bored. I choose not to point out that the two of us have lived similarly reckless lives. “I’ve seen enough, this isn’t helping anything,” He yanks the drive from its port and holds it out to me. “Here, all yours.”

I’ll have a look at it later. Not terribly interested in the contents, anyway—such fruitless data isn’t at the top of my list of priorities, these days. 

It’s still early--just going on five o’clock. It feels odd to have no obligations. No code to crack, no imbecilic criminal to stalk and corner. I watch John, sitting back on the couch next to me, clearly lost in thought. I wonder if Mary’s death is affecting him more than he’s letting on. I wonder if he feels that he couldn't tell me, if it were. He’s been so open about his pain that I hadn’t even questioned it, but I see now that the circumstances—how quickly we fell into our own new chapter, despite his relationship with Mary—make things quite complicated. “John.”

I watch him rise out of the well of thought he was submerged in. He turns his head toward me against the cushion. I mirror him, our faces close. “Everything that’s happened—all of this,” I wave my hand vaguely toward the laptop. “We can talk about it, if you like. You know that, I think. But I fear that you’re afraid it’ll hurt me, to hear about her. To hear that her death has been difficult for you.”

He studies me for a long moment. “It’s not—it’s not that I’m holding anything back from you. You’ve made it very clear that you’re here to listen, when I need you to be,” He swallows, inhales deeply. “And I love you for that. Mary made a fool of me. She was a liar and a fraud. The thought that I didn’t see her for what she was brings all the self-hatred that I had put behind me back in full force. Any grief that I should be feeling for her is swallowed up by anger--and I don’t want to be that person anymore, not ever again,” He brings his hand up, smooths it down my arm and lightly takes my hand. “Above anything else, I’m happier than I knew I was capable of. And madly in love, if you hadn’t noticed. I’ve been trying to focus on that, with you,” He looks away for a moment, and when he turns back he looks hesitant, wary. “I—have a therapist, you know. Ella. I stopped seeing her ages ago—when I met you, actually. But when you died, I—I’ve been going once a week for years now,” I’m not entirely surprised to hear this. John has grown a lot in my time away. He’s more open and aware of his emotions than I ever knew him to be. I give him a small smile. _ I won’t judge you for trying to better yourself, John. _ He looks relieved. “Anyway, I’ll see her Tuesday. I’ll talk through it with her, see what she thinks.”

I lean forward and kiss him lightly. “All right,” Trail my fingertips down his jawline. “Let’s go for a stroll, shall we?”

✹

It’s the second week of November, and already the local shops are forcing holiday cheer on the public, in the form of twinkling, multi-colored fairy lights. An absurd amount of them light up Baker Street as we walk side by side through our neighborhood. My eyes roam the familiar buildings and pick out the changes that have occurred in my years away. Newly painted bricks, replaced awnings. A patched bit of road here, a previously nonexistent billboard there. It’ll take time to relearn the intricacies of London. To rebuild the map in my mind palace—redetermine the most expedient shortcuts and resecure each of my boltholes around the city. I look forward to all of it.

John is clearly enchanted by the festive mood our street has insisted on adopting. His blue eyes reflect the lights that surround us, and when he looks up at me, he’s grinning. “You can’t stand them, the lights,” I smile. He knows me well. “You think it’s all a bit ridiculous,” I do. “Maybe it is,” He stops walking, turns to face me, takes both of my hands. “We should go see your parents soon. I’d like to meet them.” I stare back at him, well aware that he’s thinking of the coming holidays, of his lack of family to spend time with. Wants to see if he can be a part of mine. _ You’re already my family, John. _

“All right,” I say.

✹

We’ve been walking for nearly an hour, saying little, each lost inside our own minds. It occurs to me that John is probably hungry—he does tend to consume food regularly throughout the day—a habit I used to find inconvenient. Not anymore. Anyway, it’s been nearly five hours since our lunch with Harry. I scan our surroundings for a solution, and my eyes land on a little restaurant tucked in between an office building and a butcher shop. Red lanterns shine in the windows and I recognize it as a Chinese grill we visited once, before. I take John’s hand and lead him across the street and through the door. He looks up at me questioningly but says nothing.

“Did you hear my stomach growling or do you just know me that well?” He finally asks as we remove our coats and take a seat at the bar.

“A bit of each, I think.”

“We’ve been here before,” He’s surveying the place, recognizing the light pink walls, the dark wooden beams across the ceiling.

“Yes.” We’d been on a case that brought us to this part of town. Tracked down a witness who worked at the bank across the street. Her input was almost entirely useless, and we were at a bit of a dead end. So we came here.

I sip the baiju, neat, that I’ve ordered from the overly friendly barman. John has been talked into trying one of their house cocktails. His face scrunches up when he tries it, “Bit sweet, that,” but he drinks it anyway. Of course he does.

He asks me about my family as we eat. Wants to know what to expect from my parents. He’s concerned, I think, that they won’t accept him. They will. They’ll hardly believe I’ve managed to keep him. “They’re quite normal, actually,” He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Not sure ‘normal’ could produce the likes of you and Mycroft.”

I smile. “There was never any hope for Mycroft. And I made the mistake of idolizing him in my youth,” I pause. I’m meant to be reassuring him. “They’ll love you. They’ve never known me to care for anyone, and they’ve long been aware of the place you hold in my life.”

He smiles warmly, nods. “All right,” And we quietly finish our meals.

✹

On the walk back to 221B, John holds my hand. I’m still adjusting to the fact that I’m now allowed these simple gestures of affection. Still difficult to believe that I no longer need to beat back everything I feel for him. No longer have to keep it all safely contained beneath my skin.

Once we get home, John builds a fire in the grate while I make tea. He flips on the telly and we huddle together beneath a blanket on the couch, sipping quietly and pretending to focus on whatever asinine program is playing out in front of us. I’m barely aware of it, distracted by the warm line of John’s body pressed against my side from shoulder to hip. It’s maddening.

No longer willing to feign interest in this fatuous tripe, I set down my tea and slip my hand under the blanket—fingers trailing suggestively against his warm thigh. He snaps his eyes away from the screen and they lock intently onto mine. _ Blue _ . He stares for a long moment, formulating his response. Then, slowly, he drops his mug on the coffee table and turns his body toward me, knocking the blanket carelessly to the floor. He brings his hands to my biceps and pushes me back, back until I’m lying down, eyes wide and waiting—_w__hat happens next, John? _—anticipating.

He crawls over my body, hovering above on hands and knees. Our eyes remain locked as he lowers himself, unhurriedly, lying down flat on top of me. This is the first time I’ve had the whole of him pressing me down, chest to chest and groin to groin. It feels amazing. Safe. He rests his cheek on my shoulder for a moment, breath warm against my flesh, then leans in and slowly, slowly, licks a hot, wet stripe up the side of my neck. Oh, _ God _. I tilt my head back and his hands come up to run gently through my curls, as he continues to press his lips to my neck. My skin prickles pleasantly beneath the heat of his wet, wicked mouth. 

Carefully, he begins to move his hips. A deliberate, lingering grind against my own. Shallow, delayed thrusts. It’s _ sexy _ . The drawn out drag of friction is igniting every one of my senses, waves of heat rippling through my gut and twisting up beneath my ribcage. _ John _. You’ll be the death of me. 

Relentless with this blissful, leisurely grind, he begins to suck lightly on the flesh of my neck. I let slip a long, low moan, feeling every muscle in my body relax as all blood flows down, down, straight to my hardening cock. I am weightless, floating, helpless beneath him as he writhes against me, sets me on _ fire _.

His teeth scrape my skin now, and as the bruise beneath begins to form, marking me as his own, I lift my hips to meet his steady thrusts. A request for more. He presses his lips to the bruise, my jaw, my mouth, then sits up on top of me, straddling my thighs. He rocks his hips forward, both of us hard as rods and beginning to leak beneath the barrier of our trousers. His hands come down, unbutton, unzip. Freeing us both from our unfortunate confines. His palm glides through the moisture glistening at the head of his own cock, and he gives me a long, heated look as he takes us both in hand. I gasp, loudly, at the contact. It’s glorious. Our shafts pressed together as one in his grasp, he gradually begins to stroke—up, down—in a steady, torturous rhythm. Chests heaving, fire in our eyes, our hips begin to thrust of their own accord into the circle of his hand. In, out.

He leans forward now, bracing himself with his right arm, and kisses me wildly as we pick up speed. Tongues tangling, teeth clacking. Our hips slamming forward as we pant into each other’s mouths, rhythm rapidly faltering as his grip tightens around us. Together, breathlessly, we tumble toward the brink. Gasping, shouting, I’m the first to fall. Body going still before I erupt beneath his fingers. Falling, flying, it doesn’t take long before he follows me over the edge.

✹

Saturday morning. I awaken before John, finding him curled around my back, arm wrapped tight around my waist, even in sleep. Peaceful. It’s quiet moments like this that nearly knock the breath out of me. A heady combination of relief, gratitude, adoration--love, I suppose, is the word for it--too much to contain, and nowhere to put it all.

I extricate myself from his clutches and head to the loo, then make my way to the kitchen. Start the coffee and rummage through the fridge. Throw some bacon in a pan, crack some eggs into a bowl. Dig out the bread and jam.

Just as I’m scrambling the eggs, John shuffles in. “My God, are you making me breakfast?”

I smirk. “Am I? I guess I am.”

“Woke up to the smell of bacon and wondered if I was having a stroke.” He sits down at the table, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“You still may be. But there is indeed bacon.” I set a plate down in front of him and move to retrieve the toast. Pour him a coffee, and we eat.


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dinner?

“What do you think about having our friends over for dinner tonight?” John asks as we sit in our chairs, sipping coffee and each browsing a section of the paper. I look up at him, wondering what on Earth brought on this idea. He narrows his eyes at me. “In two days we’ll be announcing publicly that we’re an item. Amongst other things. I think we should tell the people we actually like, first,” Ah. Yes, I suppose we really should.

“Who were you thinking?”

“Greg. And Mrs. H. is back this afternoon,” She’s been at her sister’s since Tuesday, meaning she hasn’t been around to hear the telling sounds of our blossoming relationship through the ceiling of her flat. “And, ah--Molly, maybe. If you think it’s a good idea.” Right. Molly’s name hasn’t come up once since John found out she was in on the ruse.

“Yes, all right. I do think it’s a good idea.”

“You don’t think Molly will be upset?” 

Why would she be? “Upset?”

He gives me a look. “Yes, Sherlock, upset that we’re together now. She’s been in love with you for ages.” 

I sigh. “She had a brief infatuation. In fact, Molly’s known of my feelings for you for ages.” A disbelieving look. I shrug. “She said as much. Said she sees me. She really does, too--she knew that something was off that day--it’s what lead to me asking for her assistance. Molly’s a good friend, John.”

He looks back at me thoughtfully, and then, a slow nod. “All right, then. You text her, I’ll text Greg? We can ask Mrs. H. when she gets back.” 

I give him a nod. All instincts are telling me to be annoyed, bored. A dinner party? Tedious. But as I drop my eyes back to the paper in my hands, I can’t quite contain my grin.

✹

_ Yes!!!!! I’d love to come _

_ Is John upset with me? _

_ Sorry _

_ I shouldn’t have asked that _

_ I mean I know he has good reason to be _

_ And if he is it’s all right _

_ You don’t have to answer that _

_ Should I bring anything? _

_ He isn’t. Just bring yourself. See you at six. SH _

✹

We hear Mrs. Hudson clamber in through the front door around two, and both head down to greet her. John immediately takes the bags out of her hands and sets them on the kitchen table. When she asks what we’ve been up to the past week, we avoid each other’s eyes and change the subject to her visit with her sister.

“Oh, you know how it is with siblings,” She muses, shuffling around the kitchen, preparing tea. “She’s a right pain in my arse, but I’ll miss her when she’s dead. Which may not be too far off, mind.” She tilts her head and gives us a pointed look. “Old age, you know.”

We stay for a cup of tea, invite her to dinner, (_ Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely! I’ll whip up something to bring for dessert _.) and make our excuses to head back upstairs. 

On our way out the door, she grabs us each by the hand and beams at us. “So happy to have you boys back. It just wasn’t the same here without you.”

✹

John says Lestrade will be stuck at the Yard until seven, and will head over after. I suspect he’s already well aware of the change in our relationship. He gave me one too many knowing glances on Thursday, and likely witnessed my attempts at comforting John after speaking with Ajay as well. He’ll be supportive. He’s always gone out of his way to show that he’s a friend to us both.

We decide to make homemade pizzas for dinner. A far cry from our usual cuisine of choice, but Molly and Lestrade will be thrilled that we’re not forcing anything pretentious on them, and Mrs. Hudson has never turned down Italian. We’re lacking a few ingredients so John offers to run to the shops for supplies. I again get a flutter of panic in my chest, thinking about hidden dangers waiting to snatch him away from me, but we have to part at some point. I don’t argue.

“Try not to get kidnapped, I won’t have time to rescue you before dinner.”

“I’ll do my best.”

✹

_ I’ve made it to Tesco unkidnapped. _

_ Could still be kidnapped at Tesco, John. SH _ _   
_ _ Stay vigilant. SH _

_ Solid point. _

_ There’s an old lady who’s been staring at me quite a bit. _

_ Could she be my kidnapper? _

_ False alarm, she was just trying to get a glimpse at my arse. _

_ A worthwhile pursuit. SH _

_ Consider my eyes rolled. _

_ Pepperonis or sausages? Both? _

_ Both. And pick up more rambutans, we’re out. SH _

_ What have you done with them? _

_ Experiment. SH _

_ Obviously. SH _

_ Obviously. _

_ Get started on the dough, madman. _

_ I’ll be home soon. _

_ John? SH _

_ Yes? _

_ Don’t forget the rambutans. SH _

✹

  


By the time six o’clock rolls around, we’ve got everything prepped and ready to go. Toppings chopped, dough rising, wine chilling. Molly is the first to arrive. I open the door to find her fidgeting and smiling nervously--same as it ever was--so I wrap her up in hug. “Hello, Molly. Please come in.”

She’s clearly a bit taken aback by my warm welcome, but seems to relax a bit as she shuffles inside. “This is exciting, isn’t it? It’ll be just like that Christmas we all spent here--I mean, hopefully not _ just _ like it--no, I didn’t mean--”

“Yes, we’re quite excited as well,” John has walked in, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “It’s been too long, Molly, hello.” He gives her a quick hug.

“John!” This comes out as a startled squeak. “It’s good to see you--yes, yes it’s been far too long.” John asks what she’s been up to, and when they begin to chat about Molly’s new boyfriend, I take my leave. 

I head down to check on Mrs. Hudson and find her putting the finishing touches on the trifle she’s made for dessert. “Lovely,” I say.

“Yes, well. Can never resist an opportunity to whip up a trifle. My favourite, you know.”

“Indeed.”

Once we’re all upstairs, glasses of wine in hand, an awkward silence falls over us. I have spent the last week gradually relearning how to communicate with John, but I’ve yet to break free of my introverted ways. And I’ve never been one for small talk. I glance at John. _ Need you to carry this conversation. _And he grins and asks our guests how they spent Halloween.

✹

Lestrade arrives shortly after seven. “Smells bloody fantastic in here,” He’s in good spirits when he tromps through the door, throwing his jacket on the arm of the couch and plopping down casually next to it. “Thought you two would be feeding us some sort of French something or other. Snails, maybe.”

“_ Snails?” _ Molly gives him an incredulous look. The pizzas are nearly finished baking, and we’re on our second bottle of a nice Pinot Grigio John picked up on his way home from the shops.

“Yes well, we just had escargots on Thursday, actually, so pizza it is,” John’s amusement is written all over his face as he pours Lestrade a glass of wine. “Glad you could make it. How was work?”

“Don’t ask,” He sips his wine, makes a small sound of approval. “No really. Unless you’re ready to take on a case--and believe me, we’re happy to have you whenever you are--don’t even get me started. We’re all pulling our hair out over this one. Heading back to the Yard when I leave here, actually, to try and get ahead of things.”

John looks over at me, grinning. “You’re dying to know. Go ahead, then.” Oh, John. I return the grin.

✹

“--it’s been nine months since the first, four since the second, and we think they’re gearing up for a third. There’ve been whispers. We’re trying to get one step ahead of them, they’re sneaky bloody bastards. Sally’s about ready to flip her lid over it.”

We’ve sat down for dinner, Lestrade finishing his long-winded explanation of the ongoing case that’s driving him up a wall. A series of bank heists by a group known to the Yard as the Waters gang. Apparently they leave no evidence, always disappearing without a trace. Boring.

Molly is telling John and Mrs. Hudson about a body that recently came into the morgue, wearing two pairs of pants. “Just give me one good reason,” Molly breathes out between giggles, “Why a person would need to wear two pairs of pants.”

The conversation flows easily as we pop open a third bottle of wine. Mrs. Hudson tells tales of her sister’s foul mouth (_ It’s indecent, honestly.) _ and Lestrade stops thinking about bank heists long enough to summarize some of the more interesting murders that occurred in the past two years. The pizza is a hit, and I find myself almost enjoying the company of people who aren’t John.

Eventually, there’s a lull in the conversation, and John looks over at me. _ Shall we? _I smile, nod. He clears his throat. “Actually, ah--there’s something we wanted to tell you all. We don’t want a fuss,” he hurries to say, “But, um--” He glances over, our eyes lock--

“We’re together,” I blurt out. “John and I. For a few days now. We wanted to tell the three of you in person.” We’re met with a moment of stunned silence. And then:

“I _ knew _ it,” Lestrade slams his hand down on the table, causing Molly to jump. “I bloody well knew it. What the bollocksing hell took you so long?” 

Molly titters nervously, then congratulates us profusely. Mrs. Hudson is beaming, eyes glistening, apparently lost for words.

All right, then.

John grins at me, and I lean over and give him a swift kiss. Lestrade whistles. Molly giggles. Mrs. H. is now shedding actual tears, dabbing at her eyes with a table linen. Ridiculous. 

“We have a press conference scheduled for Monday,” We better tell them the rest of it. “We know they’ll ask, they always ask, and this time we’ll be answering. There’s something else you should know, though,” Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough not to immediately ask about the woman John had planned on marrying a week ago. I nod at Lestrade.

“Ah, right--besides giving details on Sherlock’s return, the main thing we’ll be covering at the press conference is the death of Mary Morstan.” Molly looks confused--she has no reason to recognise the name--and Mrs. Hudson lets out a gasp.

“But--I didn't want to say--John? She’s dead?”

“Yes, she was killed on Wednesday. It’s a complicated case, and we won’t be releasing all the details. But the official story is that she was shot during a mugging gone wrong, and died instantly. You should know, Mrs. Hudson, that she wasn’t exactly who she presented herself to be. No need to worry about me, either. As you can see, things are good.” Mrs. Hudson doesn’t look like she’s finished asking questions, but she thankfully refrains from pushing the subject.

The cheerful conversation resumes as we break out the trifle. Mrs. H. really does have a way with desserts. And as we move back to the living room to finish off the last of the wine--everyone full, content and more than a little buzzed--I admit to myself easily that this is the happiest I’ve ever been.

Once our glasses have run dry, our guests take their leave. We show them out with promises to see each other again soon. We hear the click of the front door downstairs, and John and I are alone at last.

✹

We lunge at each other. The wine, the joy of the evening--as well as the exhilarating feeling of being out to our friends--all combine to create a heavy cloud of lust around us. We’re scrabbling at one another, pulling at shirts and unbuttoning trousers with fumbling fingers.

Leaving a trail of clothing in piles on the floor, we trip and stumble out of our trousers and pants on the way down the hall to our bedroom. We fall chaotically into bed--a tangle of legs, hands clutching faces and mouths pressed together, hot and wet. Our tongues at war within the confines of our lips.

John’s hands migrate to my hair, fingernails scraping lightly against my scalp, and I moan softly, right into his mouth. Every scratch of his nails and tug of his fingers sends a drop of heat skittering down my spine. He kisses me fiercely, unrestrained—both of us breathing rough and ragged—and hitches a leg over my hip. We rub our bodies together, erections sliding solid as steel, and I snake an arm around John’s waist to pull him in closer. We both cry out at the increased contact, barely holding on, nearly ready to let go. Pleasure pooling fast in my gut, bubbling up into a rabid boil. Chest heaving furiously, I roll onto my back, pulling John on top of me. He tucks his face into the crook of my neck, panting hot air onto my assailable flesh. Our frenzied thrusts slide our shafts together fluidly, over and over—and over and over—

My hands slide down to his arse now, and feeling bold, reckless, I slip one finger down, down, and press hard against his tight hole. He shouts my name—stunned—as he comes—violently—between us. The sound of my name torn from his lips sends me spiraling wildly after him. Clutching on to each other, we ride out the waves, rocking slowly as the tide washes us out to sea.

✹

When I open my eyes, John has slid off of me, lying pressed against my side. He’s got his head propped up with one arm, looking down at my chest as he traces a looping figure eight around my nipples. I shiver, bring my hand up to rub across his back, kneading into muscle as he quietly sighs. “Before you silently work yourself up into a tizzy wondering if you crossed a line, you should know that I _ definitely _ liked it,” I laugh. Loud. The rumble of my voice echoing through the room. He smirks.

“You’re perceptive, for an idiot,” Reads me like a book, more like. I’ve been rapidly preparing apologies and wondering if I’d gone too far without asking permission.

“And you’re idiotic, for a genius,” He smiles, shrugs. “Never going to be bored with you, am I?”

I reach up, grab his face, pull our mouths together into an ardent kiss, pouring all the affection I feel for him into it. Slide my tongue against his lower lip, then bite down, gently. He huffs a laugh and leans up, kisses my brow, then breaks away. “You should also know, I’m not opposed to trying more of that sort of thing. I, ah—want to try all of it, with you.”

“I do as well, John,” He’s perfect. “I want everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ་ ⍸ ་


	15. Fifteen

We wake up early, realize it’s Sunday and go right back to sleep.

Hours later—eleven AM according to the clock on my bedside table—I lie propped against pillows, listening to the rhythm of John’s steady breathing. He’s still lying against my side, the way we fell asleep. Head pillowed on my chest, a tiny spot of drool on the duvet below. Charming, John.

I rub my palm across his back again. I love this: a small act of comfort. He stirs, nestles further into my side, brushing his hand up my abdomen, chest, tracing a collarbone. Awake, now. He sighs. Content. Slowly, he drags his fingers back down to my stomach, then lower, lower. Already sporting a stunning morning erection, I hiss when his palm rubs firmly up my shaft through the duvet. He continues to lazily stroke, up, down, up, down, through the soft linen we lie under.

When I come, it’s with a gasp and a sigh, feeling my bones melting slowly and seeping out through my pores.

I lie there for a long moment, John hasn’t moved from his nest at my side. I wrap both arms around him and squeeze him against me. Kiss his forehead and his soft golden hair. “John,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“I want to try something,” Mirroring his words from the other night, he’ll know what’s on my mind.

He tips his head up to look at me. “Yeah?” I nod, kiss him sweetly, then roll him gently onto his back. I slide down his body, settling between his thighs. Duvet around my hips, hands roaming up and down his sides. Comforting. I trace the pads of my fingers lightly against his scrotum, back across his perineum, then forward again. John breathes heavily above me. He’s closed his eyes, head thrown back against the pillow. 

Keeping my touches light, I run two fingers down his shaft, tip to base, watching as his body begins to tremble slightly. Propping myself up on my left forearm, I use all five fingers of my right hand to stroke, feather light, up, down, twist. Observing John’s responses, memorizing the feel of him. I circle my fingers loosely around him now, lean in and blow a steady stream of warm air from my lips against his glans. He shudders, lets slip a small gasp. He’s lovely, like this. A puddle of lust, liquifying beneath my fingertips.

I want to taste him now. My tongue slowly glides along the base of his shaft, leaving a thick trail of saliva in its wake. Warm velvet. Slightly salty from sweat. When I flick my tongue against his balls, he cries out, hips twitching, so I reach up and hold him down. I suck lightly on his scrotum, committing to memory the feel of the fine hairs there, the warm, musky taste of him. Recording every twitch of his body and the sounds filling our bedroom as he sobs and moans. 

Primed for the main feature, I prop myself back up and hover over him, waiting. Waiting for him to look at me. He’s still squirming a bit, chest heaving, and when he opens his eyes, they lock directly onto mine. Staring back at him with purpose, I wrap my mouth firmly around the head of his cock, and without hesitation slide down, down,  _ down _ . He’s breathing out a string of curses, blue eyes wild and full of heat. Watching. I pull slowly,  _ slowly _ upward, sucking steadily all the way. John’s voice is now a drawn-out wail, and as I pull off with a  _ pop _ , it turns into a sob. Taking pity on him now, I wrap my lips once more around the head and  _ suck _ . Swipe my tongue, slide down, up. And when he breathes out my name in warning—hips writhing beneath me, hands clenched in the duvet—I hollow my cheeks and swallow him down.

✹

“Explain to me how the  _ hell _ that was the first time you’ve done that,” I’ve crawled back up John’s body to adopt his earlier position, nestled in at his side. His hand massages my nape and I’ve wrapped an arm tightly around his waist.

“I observed,” I press my lips to his pectoral. “And deduced.”

“God, you’re a wanker,” He kisses the top of my head, fingers sliding up to find their home in my curls once more. “Let’s go to brunch.”

✹

Once we’ve returned from brunch, we spend the day sleepily, lazily puttering around the flat. I’ve found I don’t much mind having downtime these days, as long as John is around to keep me somewhat occupied. I am, however, itching to start the work again. Soon.

“John, what are your thoughts on picking up a case or two this coming week?” He looks up from where he’s sprawled on the couch watching some news program on the telly.

“Really? Yeah--I think--yeah, that’d be good,” He pauses, picks up his laptop from the coffee table and sits up. “I’m guessing the emails have been pouring in now that you’re alive again. You’ve checked?” I have. I’d been avoiding the blog and everything associated with it this past week, but today I finally looked, finding hundreds of cases in my inbox.

I nod. “Are you planning on returning to the clinic?” He’d taken a leave, citing a ‘family emergency’, the day he found out I’d returned. Oh, John.

“Not anytime soon,” He scrolls distractedly, eyes flicking between me and the screen. “Hated it there anyway. Not sure how many more years of smiling at hypochondriacs I have in me, really,” Another pause. Suddenly he looks unsure. “Sherlock, will we--I mean as far as income goes--”

“Yes, John, obviously,” He lets out the breath he was holding. “I’d like to be equals in the work and in everything else. And we may as well combine our finances anyway,” I wave my hand vaguely. “What’s mine is yours,” He smiles. “Obviously,” I add, for good measure.

✹

I call Mummy. “You’re welcome to come this week, if you like, dear. We’ll be in Leicester visiting friends for the weekend, but we’d love to have you come stay through Friday.”

“I’d like to bring John. Time you both met him, I think.”

A pause. “Sherlock, that would be lovely,” I roll my eyes. She sounds like Mycroft when she adopts this tone.  _ John is still willing to speak to you?  _ Is what she really wants to say.

“He’s looking forward to meeting you.”

“Tell him we’ll be thrilled to have him. The both of you are welcome any time, of course.”

We say our goodbyes, and I can’t help but look forward to the trip. John says he hasn’t spent much time in Wales, and The Vale of Glamorgan, where my parents reside, is just a three hour train ride from London. It will be nice to show him around, explore together. And I have no doubt whatsoever that they’ll both be head over heels for him. We decide to book a train for Wednesday morning and return Friday afternoon. Two and a half days with my family will be more than enough time. 

I wish I could have met John’s parents. I’d never really considered what his family might be like until I met Harry. Seeing the two of them interact gave me a glimpse into his life before I knew him, and I regret not being able to meet the two people who formed this man that I hold so dearly. The only man to ever break through the walls around my heart.

✹

We crawl under the covers at ten that night, knowing we need to rise early for tomorrow’s events. I wrap my pyjama-clad arms around John, tucking my nose into his temple and breathing him in. He turns his head, kisses me softly, hand coming up to brush my cheek as he rolls to face me. We gently brush lips, eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment. We fall asleep this way. Close. Breathing each other’s air.


	16. Sixteen

We wake up abruptly to a piercing beep from the bedside table. John groans and flops over to slam his hand against the snooze button. I’ve got my phone out already, tapping away, pulling up the news story on Mary’s death that was planned for release this morning. John pulls the covers over his head. “Anything interesting?” This comes out as a muffled grumble to my left.

“Mm,” My eyes are flying rapidly across the article, scanning for any discrepancies. “No mention of you, thank God,” I had made sure Mycroft had every intention of preventing the media from mentioning John’s relationship with Mary. But one never knows what will slip through the cracks. “Would have been disastrous for your shiny reputation to announce to the world the death of your almost-fiance and your new lover in the same breath,” I smirk to myself as John groans.

“You know it’ll get out eventually though, right?” He’s tucked the duvet down under his chin, head poking out the top, looking up at me where I sit propped against the headboard. “I’ve already prepared myself to be asked about my relationship with her. I’m just going to be honest.”

“Is that such a good idea?” I fear for the backlash he may have to face. He’s a relatively well-known public figure, and the press has never gone lightly on us. “In the eyes of London, Mary was nothing more than an orphaned nurse with an innocent smile.” I don’t want John to be looked down on for his role in this fiction, when the real story can’t be told.

“I’ll tell them she and I were colleagues and friends. That we dated for a bit, and that it ended. Which would have been true if she hadn’t gotten herself shot just before I could actually end it.”

“All right,” I accept this. There’s no way they could know that a proposal was imminent. “Shower?” At this, he grins, dangerously.

✹

We stand under the torrid stream of water, steam rising on all sides of our very naked bodies. This is the first time we’ve showered together--now I wonder what on Earth we were waiting for. It’s lovely. I reach for my shampoo, lather it on my hands. Instead of running it through my own wet mop of curls, I slide my fingers through John’s soft mane from where I stand behind him. He sighs as I work it into his scalp, his muscles relaxing, all tension seeping out of his body and down the drain. 

Hands still slippery with shampoo, I slide one down his torso and take his erection in hand. The other snakes down between his cheeks to massage lightly along the crack. He breathes out a long moan and leans back against my chest, pinning my arm between us. I stroke along his shaft, torturously slow, as my fingers continue caressing the sensitive skin along his arse. My strokes gradually increase until I’m feverishly tugging, John whining and groaning beneath my fingers. My wrist flying, jerking, grip tightening, I feel him begin to unravel. I stall the slow slide of my fingers between his cheeks, pause--searching--and then push--_ in. _ He lets out a strangled shout, his release painting a line across the shower wall, and I catch him as his knees give out beneath him. He’s boneless, a human ragdoll, so I clutch him against my chest.

When his limbs regain the ability to hold hip upright, John turns to me, reaching down to return the favor. I bat his hand away. “No,” He looks up at me, puzzled. “Watch,” I say. “A demonstration.” His expression turns a touch predatory, as he watches me slide my hand down my abdomen and along my own cock. “I’ll show you_ exactly _ how I just took you apart.”

✹

John enjoyed the show, we finished washing and dressing, and now we’re standing side by side in front of the full-length mirror in our room. We’ve both chosen simple black suits for the press conference--my shirt white, his a light grey--and as we stand here primping, I’m taken aback by how natural we look together. Comfortable and at ease in each other’s presence, like two pieces of a whole. 

And with that obnoxiously romantic ideation, I give John a swift kiss on the temple and drag him out through the door to greet the day.

✹

_ “Mr. Holmes, would you care to comment on the nature of your relationship with Dr. Watson? It’s been famously speculated that the two of you are more than just colleagues.” _

_ “We’ve always been more than just colleagues. From the very beginning of our acquaintanceship I’ve considered Dr. Watson a dear friend and confidant. I am happy to report, however, than since my return we have become partners, in the truest sense of the word.” _

_ “What does that mean, Mr. Holmes?” _

_ “It means we are now in a committed romantic relationship. Obviously.” _

_ “Dr. Watson, do you have anything to add?” _

_ “Ah--We’re very happy. And very lucky to have this chance for a new chapter--” _

“Oh, God, turn that off. I sound like such a bloody wanker,” John groans as I snap the telly off, smirking back at him.

“Yes, well, nothing new there. At least you’re nice to look at--” I dodge the Union Jack pillow he’s just tossed at me from where he sits in his chair. “Really, John, so juvenile.”

The press conference went off without a hitch. We had Lestrade by our sides to answer the majority of questions regarding the case, I gave a statement about my absence, and all three of us nearly died of boredom. Overall, it went exactly as expected.

✹

It’s now approaching four o’clock and John is perusing my emails for a good case, while I roam around the house anxiously. Unsure what’s got me so on edge, I lie down on the couch and assume my thinking position. Once upon a time I’d be abusing nicotine patches and shooting the walls while I’m in this state. Now I just flutter from couch to kitchen, chair to bedroom, driving John mad with my restlessness.

“You’re coming to the pub with me later, yeah?” Lestrade had invited John--and I suppose, by extension, myself--to meet him at the pub tonight for _ chips and pints _, as they so enthusiastically referred to their planned outing. Not really my scene, but--at least for now--where John goes, I follow. 

And I do like chips. “Indeed.”

“Good,” He smiles at his laptop. “What about this one? This bloke’s dog runs away, and then two days later, the neighbor across the street is out in the yard with an_ identical _dog.”

“John, _ really? _”

“Hold on, I’m getting to the good bit. When he goes over to confront the neighbor and get his dog back, the dog attacks him. Bites clean through his forearm. But the thing is, he’s _ positive _ it’s his dog. Same exact markings or some such.” I sigh.

“Obvious. The original owner of the dog was abusive and likely neglectful. The neighbor, a card carrying member of PETA no doubt, witnessed this mistreatment from across the street, and decided to do something about it. Though the original owner surely could not care less about the animal, he is a petty git and wants his neighbor to pay. Hence, contacting us to prove it’s the same dog. The dog bit him because dogs are wise and protective companions, and he was defending his new home,” I rattle all this off and startle myself into a sitting position with the wave of relief I feel having solved a case, however mundane. “John!”

He’s slightly taken aback as I leap to my feet. “Yes?”

“We need to find a case, a real one.”

“Working on that, yeah.”

“We need to find a _ murder _.”

“Well actually,” John closes the laptop and sets it aside. “Greg mentioned he might have something for you. A new one that’s got them stumped. He can tell you about it tonight.”

✹

I stare at the black and white checkered paper that lines our basket of chips. Knee bouncing, restless, impatient. Where’s Lestrade? What time is it? Half seven, nearly. Need to hear the details of this case they’ve got on. Why hadn’t he just texted me? Is it definitely a murder? It’s probably only a three. If it were a five or above he’d have texted me. Maybe he doesn’t think I’m ready for a case? Am I ready for a case? I think so, yes. I want one, anyway. I wonder if John is ready to jump back into the work. Where is John? I glance up and see that he’s standing at the bar, chatting with the bartender, who’s batting her eyelashes at him. Nice try, idiot. He’s extremely taken. By me. Now John is sliding back into our corner booth, two pints in hand.

“You’ve barely touched your first, Sherlock. Catch up, why don’t you.”

“Where’s Lestrade?” I ask, sipping the pint of loathsome swill in front of me. It’s not that bad, actually. I’m just in a mood.

“I told you, he got held up at the Yard. Apparently whatever this case is, it’s a real head scratcher.”

“I like a head scratcher.”

“You do, don’t you,” A smirk. I roll my eyes. “He’ll be here soon,” He hesitates. “You haven’t been like this at all since you’ve been back, is everything all right?” He eyes my bouncing knee, my knuckles rapping impatiently on the round wooden table. Haven’t the faintest. Doesn’t seem like it though, does it? Is this not good? Should I be concerned? Bit wound up, aren’t I? “Sherlock?”

John is staring at me intently, looking a bit uncertain. Need to get it together. I stop the bouncing and the rapping. Will my muscles to release their tension, if only a bit. “All fine.” A hand on his upper back. “Shall we get some more chips?”

✹

Lestrade shows up (finally) around eight. “All right, you two?” He hangs his coat and shuffles around the booth to sit next to John, plopping down the pint he had ordered on the way in. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” He pauses, looks up at me intently, and says, “So tell me--what do you know about spontaneous human combustion?”

As it turns out, a woman, or rather, a pile of ashes previously known as Esme Knoll, was found in her bed completely burnt to dust, save for her red stiletto-clad left foot. It was clear upon examination that at the time the fire began, she had been lying under the covers, seemingly fully dressed including the heels. There were absolutely no signs of arson whatsoever. There were also no signs of accidentally dropped cigarettes (John’s first absurd theory). And the oddest thing, perhaps, about the entire scenario, is that the burn was completely contained. Only (most of) her body and the center of the bed where she lay were burned through, the rest of the room unharmed.

“When can I see it?”

“I suppose tomorrow morning, if you like,” He looks doubtful. Why does he look doubtful?

“Lestrade,” I say, in the tone that always urges him to divulge whatever he’s holding back.

He sighs. “Look, mate--Not everyone is thrilled at the idea of you coming back on cases. I hadn’t known it was an issue until this morning. We’ve got a few tossers who are afraid of bad press after everything that’s happened,” He takes a deep swig of beer. “I’m going to just ignore them and hope they go away, but we might have to find some more official ways of taking you on if you’re going to consult with us regularly again.” Oh. Boring. As if they could stop me from doing their jobs for them if they tried.

I wave my hand around a bit, feeling suddenly quite buzzed, then take another long swig of my pint, chasing that feeling.

✹

By the time we get home, I feel a bit looped up, zipped down. Obstreperous. Incorrigible. I’m tripping up the steps, and John is not pleased. Why are you annoyed, John? Have I let you down again?

“Sherlock,” My shoe catches on the threshold and I stumble through the door to the flat. Slide my Belstaff down my arms, down down, to the floor. “Sherlock, you need to go to bed.” Do I? Maybe I do. “Sherlock.”

John is unhappy. Disconsolate. Down in the mouth. “John,” It’s all I can manage. He’ll understand.

“Come on,” He’s got an arm around my waist and he’s half dragging me, half holding me up. I slump into bed and pull John down on top of me. Wrap my string beans around him tight. String beans? Shoe laces. “Let me go.”

John is trying to wriggle free of my grasp. “No,” You have to stay, John.

“Sherlock, let me go!” I do. I peer up at him. He’s furious. Boiling. Steamed. “I’m going to sleep upstairs tonight,” I say nothing. He stares at me. I stay silent. Then he turns around and walks out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The spontaneous human combustion case is based on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries that traumatized me in my youth. I don't remember any details other than an image of a disembodied, high-heeled foot lying in a pile of ashes that has haunted me since the 90s.
> 
> I didn't look it up because I didn't want to lift the entire story, but it seems like something that would be right up Sherlock's street. ツ


	17. Seventeen

I wake up at the first stirrings of dawn. The sun still firmly tucked out of sight, the darkness the exact shade of my collapsed, decaying heart. Bit melodramatic, that. May still be a bit drunk. When did I become so poetic? I blame you, John. _ John _. I disappointed him last night. He couldn’t even be near me.

I sit bolt upright, toss the duvet aside. Straight out the door and up the stairs. When I get to John’s (old) room I hover in the doorway for a moment, watching his sleeping form. What was that, last night? What kind of madness overcame me? I hadn’t behaved like that in years.

I slide into John’s (old) bed, tuck myself right up behind him. He stirs, then groans lightly. Remains still for a moment and then slowly turns to face me. “I’m sorry, John,” It’s just a whisper. I’m afraid he’ll throw me out if I say anything more. He looks at me strangely, then. His eyes look almost sad in the darkness of his (old) bedroom.

“No,” He breathes. “I’m—not upset. I shouldn’t have walked away.” He looks as if he wants to say more, but can’t quite find the words. He reaches out for me, pulls our bodies together. We wrap each other up in a warm embrace. I don’t understand any of it. We’ll have to sort it out in the daylight. For now, I hold him close and we sleep.

✹

John is watching me. My eyes have just flickered open to find his blue orbs staring me down from a mere eight inches away. Face to face we lie--as we tend to do in this new life--and say nothing.

The darkness has been replaced by morning light. Yellow beams stream through the small window of the upstairs bedroom, illuminating the lines on John’s face. Highlighting the worry there. Don’t be worried, John. You know this is just how I am.

Is it, though? Replaying the events of last night, I barely recognize myself. Solve one bland case of a stolen dog and I revert right back to my old, manic ways? Add a bit of alcohol and I’m suddenly entirely insufferable? I’d thought that I was beginning to change, grow. But here we are.

“You were behaving like an obnoxious dick,” John breaks through my desolate thoughts with this blunt statement.

“Yes.”

“You disappeared for a bit and came back a mess,” I was ordering shots, actually. Three of them, as I recall. Top shelf tequila. John hates tequila. “You were rude to Greg--called him an objectionable halfwit. You wouldn’t keep your hands off of me at the pub or in the cab home, ignoring my protests. You spilled your pint on the bartender--that was _ not _ an accident, Sherlock--because she _ smiled _ at me.” Did I? I did. I did all of those things. Sounds a bit not good when he rattles them off like that. God, I’ve behaved unforgivably, haven’t I? Put a wedge between us. Splintered our tender connection, perhaps irreparably--

“John, I--”

“Alcohol doesn’t suit you when you’re in that state. Now we know,” Oh.

Is it that simple? Blame it on the alcohol, really? “I’m sorry.”

“I know. So am I. I should have seen--I thought maybe a pint or two would calm you down. I should have realized.” He’s not done yet. I see the gears turning as he searches for the words. “Do you think--was it just the usual? The way you get on a case?” Perhaps. But he’s right that adding alcohol was a colossal mistake. “You’d tell me if there was something else on your mind, right?” Would I? I think I would. Is there? Not sure. Aside from the panic that rises, uninvited, on a regular basis these days. Are the two things related? Manic panic? Now I’m just being facetious. This really isn’t a joke.

“I--” How to respond? I owe him honesty, that’s for certain. But what if I don’t know the truth myself? “You’ve noticed, surely, that I’m more prone to bouts of panic, since my return.”

He nods. “Yeah, Sherlock. Of course you are. You likely have PTSD from whatever you went through, although I don’t know the details, so it’s only a guess,” Could that be? Hadn’t considered it. Would explain many of my new habits and unfamiliar thought processes. “I’m no psychiatrist, so don’t take my word for it. But you know I have experience with such things. With trauma,” He does, doesn’t he. He’s been diagnosed with PTSD. He’d recognize the signs. “You have nightmares as well,” He adds, offhandedly. Do I? I thought they had abated since John and I began sharing a bed. Have I been waking him in the night?

“John, I’m--not entirely sure what to say.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything. We can talk about it when you’re ready to,” A pause. “I see Ella today, at eleven. You could come, make an appointment with someone,” Therapy? Not my area. Telling my secrets to a stranger in a room with white walls. Could I do that? “I could have her recommend someone for you. She knows all about you, obviously,” A thoughtful pause. “This will be our first session since your return, though. Should be interesting.”

Do I want that? “Let me--think on it. For a bit.”

“Of course,” He leans in, kisses me softly. “However long you need.”

✹

My emotions are running high after this eye-opening conversation. I want to reach out for John, but after my unwanted drunken (and public) advances last night, I’m hesitant to try to initiate anything. He hasn’t moved away though, our mouths close, breaths steady. I lean in tentatively--testing the waters--and caress his bottom lip between mine. Lightly, gently. Immediately, his hands come up to my cheeks and he deepens the kiss, accepting my uncertain invitation. 

He quickly shuffles closer, eliminating the space between us, and his tongue breaches my lips--hungrily. One hand leaves my face to grab roughly at my arse, quickly elevating the electricity that had been faintly fizzling through us. Bodies now charged, we carry on like this--movements growing frantic, mouths wide and wild. John breaks away, panting heavily. He looks at me for a long, blazing moment, before reaching behind him for the nightstand and rummaging through the drawer. His fingers now clutch a small bottle of lube--a remnant of a past life. Abandoned, left behind. 

He flips me over suddenly, unceremoniously. Slides right up behind, chest to my back, erection hot and heavy against my cheeks. My breathing is strained, anticipation throbbing through my veins. I can feel him behind me, pulling his pyjamas down around his thighs, his hand sliding along his own shaft, slick with lube. Preparing. For what, exactly? 

He yanks my pyjama bottoms down to my knees. A solid pressure now, just below my arse, pushing firmly against my skin. And then, a slow slide. I gasp at this new form of contact. A slick, warm mass gliding through this sensitive space--the whole length of him now seated fully between the tops of my thighs. The head of his cock nudges my scrotum and I let out a small whine, blood flowing down, hardening fast. He doesn’t move, for a moment. An extended pause. Panting lightly, he places his left hand on my hip, sliding his right between the bed and my body--holds my stomach tight. He pulls his hips back slowly--the slippery shift of his shaft between my legs sparking a new kind of excitement within me. This is close, so close, to what I really want. Soon.

Abruptly, he slams his hips against me--body launching forward violently, arm flying out in front of me to hold myself up. He doesn’t pause for a second, pulling back rapidly and driving into me, in, out, over and over. The bones of his pelvis are hitting my flesh hard enough to bruise. _ Over and over. _ His hands remain firmly on my hip and waist. _ Over and over. _ I can feel the built up frustration pouring out of him with every brutal thrust. He doesn’t touch me and I don’t touch myself. This isn’t about me. Not this time.

My hands scrabble in the bedsheets as I struggle to remain on my side. His steady drive is pushing me down, down, into the sheets, and eventually I roll. He doesn’t miss a beat, on top of me now, thrusting and slamming and _ plowing _ down into me. His arms move up to clutch my shoulders, his full weight above me, hips lifting and lowering. _ Over and over. _

Face pressed into the mattress, I shift forward with every slam of his hips. My cock slides firmly against the soft sheets, now fluttering and leaking profusely. I cry out, shout. _ Over and over. _ Overwhelmed with arousal, mind spinning wildly trying to accept that this is John. My John. Holding me down and using my body. Taking his pleasure, unconcerned with my own. I am so turned on by this salacious thought that I come instantly-- _ powerfully _\--erupting into the sheets with a series of hoarse shouts. John moans loudly into my neck and pounds down once, twice, three times more. His hips jerk feverishly, body going rigid--sobbing and releasing all the tension he’s been holding onto--safely into the space between my thighs.

✹

John is trembling lightly above me. He breathes heavily into my neck, chest rising and falling against my spine. I feel used up, thawed out. Limbs like jelly as I lie here, mind still reeling. His weight on me is a comfort, a reassurance. I wonder now what he’ll do next. The last thing I want is for him to retreat back into a realm of shame and self-loathing. I could feel every ounce of his frustration (with me, with everything) and pain, clinging close, right on top of his skin. Raw and honest. We have this now, another language, to help us cope.

He presses his mouth to the top of my spine. Kisses a trail across my shoulder, rests his lips softly against my ear, and whispers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I breathe out. He slides off of me, lies down at my side. Rubs his palm up and down my spine.

“I love you,” Another whisper. I turn my head to look at him, expecting to see some form of doubt on his face. Reluctance, remorse. 

But all that’s there is relief. Relief, affection, gratitude. Everything I feel for him, reflected sincerely back at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing sex scenes from inside Sherlock's mind is such a damn challenge. I cannot accept that he would _ever_ say any of the more crude lingo, even inside his own head. Was originally going to only use the proper terminology for everything, but that's not really sexy, is it? Hope my mix of poetic verbiage, overuse of 'erection' and occasional use of 'cock' is working for you all. It's been fun. ✖‿✖


	18. Eighteen

When I head downstairs, leaving a dozing John behind me, I see that my Belstaff is hanging on its hook where it belongs. I’m positive I had left it in a heap on the floor when I tripped through the door last night and was heaved into bed. My heart swells at the thought of John, furious and wronged, stopping on his way upstairs to hang it in its right place. Guarding my beloved coat from harm even when he couldn’t stand the sight of me. I don’t deserve you, John.

I start a pot of coffee and take a brisk shower. When I return to the kitchen, John is standing at the worktop, milk and sugar in hand. We have fried eggs for breakfast and smile at one another over our mugs as we quietly sip our coffees.

✹

_ I’ve been reminded of my unruly behavior yesterday evening. SH _

_ I do regret calling you an objectionable halfwit. SH _

_ Affable halfwit is more accurate a description. SH _

_ Is this an apology or another bleeding insult? _

_ It’s fine, mate _

_ If you’re feeling better, come poke around this pile of ashes and see what you can find _

_ Later. We’ll be in touch. SH _

✹

I accompany John to his therapy appointment. I am in no way convinced that this is something I need, but John wants me to meet Ella--and really, I will do nearly anything he asks of me.

I now sit in the waiting room, browsing an article on my phone about the supposed normality of one’s partner accompanying them to therapy. I feel odd about it, but it’s clearly important to him. He’s gone in first--no doubt they’ve got a lot to catch up on--and we’ve decided I’ll join for a bit at the end of the session.

Halfway through the perusal of an article on controlled burns, the door opens. Ella pokes her head out. “Sherlock, would you like to come in now?” So I go. “Lovely to meet you,” She says. She doesn’t say _ finally _ . She doesn’t say _ because you’re supposed to be dead _.

I nod. “You as well,” I sit beside John on a small red settee. He smiles at me, looking nervous and fidgeting slightly. This is really quite uncomfortable. I’ve no idea what I’m meant to say.

“John wanted us to meet, so here we are. There are no expectations, so don’t feel like you need to speak about anything in particular,” Is this where John learned to read my mind? She’s watching me carefully, making emotional deductions, no doubt. A skill I seem to be incapable of learning.

“You’ve helped him a lot, while I was away. He speaks highly of you.”

“That’s nice to hear. John has made a lot of progress,” She nods at him. “Your return has been quite a shock, it seems. A shock and a relief.” Obviously. I nod again, unsure how to respond to such a statement. “He’s mentioned that you’ve been through a shock of your own. Are you interested in pursuing therapy?” Ah.

“I’m not sure at the moment, I’m afraid,” I pause, suddenly needing to get out of this room. “I’d be happy to take a recommendation, if you have someone in mind for me.” She does. She hands me a shiny blue business card.

“Many people are wary of therapy. Not interested in talking with a stranger about their lives,” She looks at John, back at me. “But it’s nearly always beneficial to share your thoughts with an unbiased party. John can testify. Consider it, won’t you?” And with that, she stands, showing us to the door.

✹

“That was bloody awkward,” John laughs nervously as we stride out the front doors. “Sorry to put you through that.”

“Don’t apologize, John,” I stick up my arm, a cab instantly gliding up to the kerb. “I’m happy to have met her,” And I am. She’s been an important part of John’s life for years now. I give the driver the address Lestrade texted me, and we pull away.

The cab stops outside a small cottage, light pink in color. It’s a quiet street and the house is older, well built, clearly well cared for. We walk inside and find that Lestrade still has his team here--forensics puttering about, probably disturbing evidence. At least we no longer have to deal with the likes of Anderson.

“Glad you could make it,” Lestrade walks toward us, snapping a dirty pair of gloves off of his hands and shoving them into his pocket. “We’ve made next to no bloody progress since yesterday.” I flick my eyes around the modern kitchen we stand in. Clean, organized. I walk over, open the fridge, a cupboard. Well stocked. I turn slowly, taking in each possible point of entry to the house—(front door, window, window)—pace through the open-plan living room—(window, window, back door, window)—the loo—(none)—and finally—

The door to the bedroom is closed (one window), no one inside. The team has been scouring the rest of the house for signs of an intruder--seemingly having given up on trying to suss out the baffling pile of ash. “Tell me what we know.”

“Well, she lives alone. She’s a call girl. Sex worker. A high-end one, seems like. She owns the house, bought it a few years back. Anyway, they found her book of Johns—” He glances at John with a smirk. “Convenient, eh? Who writes anything down these days? It’s a short list. Seven men. All being brought in for questioning today.”

“Phone?”

“Never found one. No sign of one being burned along with the body either.”

“GPS?”

“No luck. Tried that right away—we’re not completely useless.”

“You did? So you don’t _ actually _ think that her body spontaneously combusted?” I know that he didn’t. Lestrade isn’t actually an idiot. But he did lead with that theory, so it’s really as if he was _ asking _ to be ridiculed.

He glares. “Look mate, are you going to go sift through that ash or not?” I roll my eyes, pull my gloves on, and get to work.

The bed stands in the middle of the room, ornate wrought iron headboard against the far wall. A small brass table on either side. The centre of the mattress has burned through almost entirely, but not quite. The springs remain, visible through the large, egg-shaped hole. The base of the bed frame is iron as well—unusual—and this is where the ashes lie.

A variety of material—remnants of fabric (both natural and synthetic), clear human remains, as well as something (leather?) that seems to have curled up and shrunk down, but not quite disappeared. Lestrade mentioned they’d taken some jewelry found within the pile of ash to the lab—along with her remaining foot—to run tests.

“Definitely alive when burned?”

“Yes. Tests came back an hour ago. She was alive at the time. Which is why we thought—forget it, I don’t want to hear you go off about the_ improbability of human combustion _ again.”

“Drugs in her system?”

“Waiting on results. Should be any time now.”

“A paralytic. I’m sure of it,” I say this to myself, but John hears, steps closer—

“Really? You think someone drugged her?”

“Positive they did. One of her _ Johns _, no doubt. A client got his feelings hurt. Injected her with some sort of neuromuscular blocking agent and burned her alive in her own bed—where he was never allowed. Almost certainly meaning to take the rest of the house down as well. But he made the mistake of leaving quickly,” I move around the bed, point out the metal bed frame. “The entire base of the frame is heavy iron—vintage, and handmade. Our killer didn’t think things through, clearly. The flames burned long enough to turn her body to dust, but once all that remained was this solid sheet of metal, they died right out. Flames burn upward,” I point to the ceiling, at the large dark mark directly above the bed. Heat damage. “Not necessarily outward. Fire is fickle. Unpredictable. He thought it would spread. He was wrong.”

“God, you’re bloody brilliant,” John stands off to the side, arms crossed and grinning. God, it feels incredible to be here again. Swooping around a crime scene, showing off for him. His ridiculous praises shooting straight through my chest and deep into my thundering heart.

“Yes well,” I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away from him reluctantly. Best not get distracted. “We still don’t know who. Or _ how _.”

“He took the phone. Why?”

“Likely because his name is in it. Clearly didn’t consider that she may have also written it down—assuming he’s one of the men in her book.”

“You think he is?”

“Only one way to find out.”

✹

Eight hours, six interviews, four alibis, two idiots and one obituary later, the case is solved.

Hour after tedious hour of questioning six of the men on her client list, and nothing. Four of them had alibis—confirmed (eventually) by the Met. Two of them were imbeciles, albeit wealthy ones. They brought in their lawyers and were quickly released. They didn’t have the competence to pull it off anyway, that was immediately clear.

No, it was the seventh man who gave us our lead. The dead one.

As it turns out, Maxwell Chambers was a long time client of Esme Knoll. He had a rare and incurable respiratory insufficiency, and paid her well to keep his mind off of it.

She took his breath away—literally—during her visit to his posh flat three nights ago. He died, she fled. And later that evening, wracked with grief and mid-meltdown, his wife found their string of texts in his phone.

Furious, betrayed, and out for revenge, she loaded a syringe with a paralytic found in the room of Maxwell’s live-in nurse. She texted Esme, claiming to be a _ not dead after all _ Maxwell, and made an appointment for the following night.

Instead of waiting for her to show up, the wife (Alison Chambers) drove to Esme’s home, waited outside and ambushed her—with a syringe to the neck—at the back door as she was leaving. She then proceeded to guide the now stumbling, blundering Esme to her bed and burn her alive with a butane torch.

She claims she piled clothing atop her body and set it ablaze. Watched to be sure it caught, and fled. Overall, a poorly formed plan that nevertheless got the desired result. Esme Knoll is, indeed, quite dead.

✹

Adrenaline is positively gushing through my veins. The case closed with a confession, sure (boring) but still. Solved. Case closed, game over. Nice try, Mrs. Chambers. You can outwit the Met but you can’t outwit me.

John is watching me from a few yards away, amused. He’s leaning against a tabletop—arms crossed, ankles too. We’re on the third floor of the Yard, waiting for Lestrade to wrap up. Apparently we need to sign something or some other such nonsense. It’s nearly eleven, and the entire floor appears to be deserted, save for Lestrade, who’s puttering about in his office.

I stare back at John and my heart clenches so tightly that I think I might just die from the sight of him. God, he’s lovely. And mine. Propelled by some force outside myself (or, perhaps, the adrenaline) I move forward in three long strides and envelop him in an impassioned embrace. Kiss his forehead. Bring our mouths together and tell him—wordlessly—everything I need him to hear. 

Heat now dominating my senses, I break away and take his hand. Glancing around the room, my eyes land on the stairwell and without hesitation, I drag him through the door.

“Sherlock—” I shut him up with my tongue in his mouth, hand sliding down to rub his groin through his jeans. I don’t want to hear your concerns of being caught, John. Surely you see that that’s half the fun.

He moans into my mouth, hardening fast beneath my persistent fingers. Good, perfect, yes. This isn’t meant to last. I break the kiss and drop swiftly to my knees, pulling him down with me until he’s sprawled across the stairs. 

Flick open the button, whisk down the zip, free his solid cock from the confines of his pants.

My fingers encircle the base of his shaft, stroke up, down, grip tight with intention. 

Now my mouth—hot, warm, wet—slides up, down, up, down. Head bobbing swiftly like a cork in the water, tongue dancing madly along his hot flesh. 

He’s trying to stay silent—frenzied puffs of breath—writhing and squirming, twisting and floundering. 

Flick of the tongue, glide of my lips. Up, down, faster, _ faster _.

He shouts as he comes, sound loud in my ears. Reverberating dramatically through the stairwell we hide in.

I lick off the last remnants of our sordid soirée, tuck him back in and hoist him up. He looks at me dazedly, holding onto my hand, as I tug him away and back through the door

✹

“Where have you two been? Thought I heard—you know what, no. Don’t you dare answer that.” I smirk. John still looks stupefied.

Lestrade presents a stack of paperwork that he forces us to fill out before he’ll let us leave. Not that he could stop us. But John wants to get it over with, so I stay. Sign on the dotted line.

✹

Once we get home, we both make a beeline for the shower. John pulls my shaft with long, slow strokes as he kisses me beneath the warm cascade.

We order Thai and have it delivered, eating wrapped up in our dressing gowns, cross-legged on the floor by the fire.

When we tumble in to bed, it’s with heavy lids and light hearts. We meet in the middle and slip swiftly into sleep, safely encircled in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had _no_ idea where I was going with this case as I wrote it. It all played out as I typed, and it probably shows. 
> 
> Go ahead and suspend that disbelief, and pretend that my weak understanding of science, medicine and police work makes sense.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading along, and double thanks to those who've given input and sweet comments.  
I am not a writer. This is the first thing I've written since high school, and it means a ton to have your feedback.


	19. Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets the parents.

John is wrapped around my side, warm and snug, gently brushing through my curls with his fingers. I feel his breath on my neck, his head on my shoulder. _ Home _.

Speaking of—today’s the day my parents meet him at last. I keep my eyes shut tight and think of how familiar this has become, in the few short days since we’ve been reunited. How impossible it seemed, before. I wake up now feeling hopeful, if not completely healed. I fall asleep feeling safe and cared for. 

“Sherlock,” A whisper. He knows I’m awake. Either I’m slipping or he’s getting more observant. Likely the latter. I hum. “We should get tested,” Oh. Not what I was expecting to wake up to. He brushes a curl off of my forehead. “There are things I’d like to do—“ His hand slips under my shirt, slides lightly up my chest to tease a nipple. I moan, quietly. “And we’ve already been a bit reckless,” True enough, although I’m confident that I’m clean, and surely John has been screened recently, responsible doctor that he is.

“You’re unsure?”

“Well, I had a screening earlier this year,” A pause. “But then I learned that Mary wasn’t exactly monogamous,” Right. _ David. _ And who knows how many others. I open my eyes, look up at him.

“All right,” I say. He knows that I mean _ she never deserved you. _ “It’s been several years, for me,” Four actually. But it’s not like I’ve been using. Not since John. “—no needles since,” I press my lips to his jaw. “And I’ve only been with you. But I am inarguably overdue for a physical. We can go together, if you like.”

“All right. I can call today, try to get us in this weekend, once we get back.”

I wave my hand carelessly—“I’ll have Mycroft set it up. Let him feel useful, for once,” John snorts. “He can expedite the whole process,” I look at John for a long moment, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. Butterflies, really? “There are things I’d like to do, too,” I pause, feeling my heart swell beneath my ribcage. “Soon.”

✹

One shower, two simultaneous and quite satisfying handjobs, and three mugs of coffee later, we’re packed and ready to go.

It’s nearly half eight and our train leaves at nine, so we hail a cab to Paddington Station, arriving with ten minutes to spare. We shuffle to our seats, sit back and sigh—and away we go.

We pass the time during the three hour trip reading the papers and chatting about what we’ll do once we’re there. My parent’s home is in Penarth, a tourist town on the coast in the Vale of Glamorgan. November in the Vale isn’t exactly prime sightseeing weather, but it’ll be tolerable enough for an excursion or two.

When we arrive at the station, I scan the crowds, eyes landing on the man standing stoically against a pillar near the entrance. A quiet man, my father. Reserved and kind. Our resemblance is strong, and when John follows my gaze, he lets out a quiet “Wow,” and smiles up at me. “No one’s going to question whether you’re kin, are they?”

I return his smile, guide him forward with a hand on the small of his back. “No, I suppose not.”

My father greets John warmly, shaking his hand and patting his arm. “Siger Holmes. Very glad to meet you, John.” He then turns to me and we exchange a solemn nod. 

John beams widely and looks between the two of us. “Very glad to be here, Siger,” He says. “I’ve wanted to meet you for quite a long time.”

✹

My mother throws her hands in the air and exclaims loudly when we walk through the door of their cottage. Kisses John on each cheek and hugs him tight. I want to roll my eyes at her overt enthusiasm, but the sight of them together causes something new to bloom in my chest. Here they all are--my given family and my chosen one--together at last.

“You must call me Violet,” She’s saying as she ushers John to the kitchen table. “Are you two hungry?” She sets a basket of freshly baked scones on the table and pushes me into a chair next to John. The similarities between my mother and Mrs. Hudson are not lost on me. Two strong, stubborn women who’ve tried in vain to keep me tucked under their protective wings.

John looks entirely at home sitting in my parents’ kitchen, happily eating a scone and looking around the room. His eyes rove over the pink painted walls, the natural wood accents. Thoughtfully arranged art and souvenirs from their years together. I think now of the pub John’s family once owned, filled with treasures from the people who passed through. He, too, was raised with an appreciation for objects with spirit, with meaning behind their existence. Carefully collected to remind us of our past encounters and experiences. I recall John’s stolen journal of case notes and grocery lists, tucked beneath a loose floorboard in what’s now _ our _ bedroom. I read it over and over in our time apart, conjuring images of him putting pen to paper, running the pads of my fingers over the grooves of his handwriting. Imagining there was still a small part of him imbibed in its pages--

“Eat,” My mother says sharply, as she slams a plate of scones down in front of me. “Look at you, you’re just like your father. A bloody walking tree branch.”

✹

We spend the afternoon hanging about the house, chatting about our recent case, the trip they’re planning in Leicester this weekend, what restaurants we’d like to visit while we’re in town. 

Mummy asks John about his time in the army, wants to know, too, how he liked medical school. Inquires about his childhood, Harry, his parents, and then proceeds to question how he spent every other moment leading up to, and after, the day he moved in to 221B. John handles the interrogation with a practiced grace, born out of his time as a doctor and soldier--patiently answering her questions, laughing sincerely at her piteous attempts at humor. 

I watch all of this unfold with a smug sense of glee. My mother is a complicated woman. She’s much like Mycroft in her cold set of beliefs and general mistrust of all living creatures--but with a warmer interior. She can’t help but question John’s motives when it comes to her frigid, unyielding youngest son; it’s in her nature after all. But I can see he’s already found his way through her walls. He does that, my John.

Later, she corners me in the kitchen on my way out of the loo. John and my father are in the sitting room, quietly discussing their fondness for writing. “So the two of you--it’s official then?” Her eyebrows are raised to her hairline, her expression one of unguarded hope and expectation. I nod, and can’t quite help letting a satisfied smile spread slowly across my face. “He’s wonderful,” She says. “I’ve never seen you like this.” She hasn’t. I’ve never been like this before.

✹

For dinner, we take their Jeep to a well-loved seafood eatery on the water. It’s a favorite spot amongst locals, and the food, as it turns out, is divine. Afterward, the four of us stroll down the pier--the lights against the water casting an otherworldly glow around us, rippling outward in every direction. I watch my parents, arms wrapped around each other’s backs, looking out into the sea. I take John’s hand.

✹

By the time we get back to the cottage, it’s nearing ten o’clock. My parents retire to their bedroom with a smile and a hushed _ goodnight _, leaving John and I in the sitting room, silently staring at one another. I lead him quietly upstairs to our room, we brush our teeth and climb into bed. John crawls up my body, lies right on top of me, chin resting on my sternum. He links our hands together and peers up into my eyes. “They’re completely lovely,” He says. “All of this--I’m so glad we came.”

I press my lips to the top of his head. Unlink our hands to wrap my arms firmly around him, holding him in place where he lies above me. “So am I,” I say. And I am.

✹

“Sherlock,” I hear John’s voice through a thick fog of red. He sounds alarmed. I try to call out to him. _ John. _ Am I making any sound? “Sherlock,” I feel the bed dip. Not asleep, but I can’t quite open my eyes. “Sherlock, you have to wake up.”

“John?”

“Yes, it’s me,” My eyes fly open now. I prop myself up and glance around wildly. John stands at the far side of the unfamiliar bed, leaning forward, but keeping his distance. Palms against the mattress, face a picture of concern. I wipe my hand across my wet cheek and stare down at it in the dim light of dawn. I sigh, deeply, and lie back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“A nightmare.”

“Yes.”

“It hasn’t happened like this before.”

“Not quite, no.”

“I never remember them,” John has crawled back into bed. Pulls me over to nestle against his side, hand going straight up to card through my curls. Comforting.

“The unfamiliar room, maybe,” He muses quietly. “They were always worse for me, outside of 221B.” I stay silent. He may be right.

I rest my hand against his heart, willing my own to slow, to match his steady rhythm. His fingers pull gently through my hair, and I find peace once more as I drift back into sleep.

✹

John and I wake several hours later. We shower (separately), dress, and head downstairs. We’re greeted with a scene of domesticity not unlike our own. My father sits at the table, newspaper in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, while my mother flits around him, frying sausages and whisking eggs.

“Sleep all right, you two?” I ignore the question and slide into a seat across from my father.

John nods in response, smile firmly in place. “Smells brilliant,” He says. No mention of forgotten nightmares, of tears shed in sleep--

“Good morning, everyone,” I choke on the piece of toast I’d been in the process of ingesting as Mycroft strides in through the front door. “I trust you’re all well?”

“What the _ hell _are you doing here?” I splutter indignantly. He purses his lips into a thin line, and his eyes narrow at me over his shoulder as he hangs his coat.

“I was invited, of course.”

“By _ whom _?”

“I thought it would be nice,” Mummy says in a pale impersonation of innocence as she sets a plate in front of John. “All of us together.”

I roll my eyes and scowl as John looks from Mycroft, to my mother, then to me, and grins. “Well I think it’s just lovely. So good to see you, Mycroft, how _ have _ you been?” Mycroft doesn’t dignify this with a response, just sits down to John’s right, pulling a large plate of toast toward himself.

“I’ve set up appointments for you both. Saturday at eleven o’clock.”

“What’s this then?” My mother has stopped her fluttering long enough to eavesdrop.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Mummy. Sherlock’s just asked me for a _ favor, _ is all.” He looks straight at me as he says this, a slight smirk on his face. Hateful.

“Yes, well, moving _ right _ along--thank you, Mycroft. Ever so kind,” He glares, so I continue. “Have you put on weight?” I reach for the heavy plate of toast he’s still hoarding, drag it across the table, scraping loudly against the worn wood. “Seems one of your buttons is attempting to make a break for it.”

✹

John and I escape at half ten to go off and explore the Penarth town centre on our own. We peruse the shelves of a used book store, scan the aisles of the local record shop. Spend nearly an hour at a vintage store, laughing and deducing the past lives of all the oddities we come across.

We stop for a late lunch at a small café, sharing a bacon and brie toastie and a bowl of Welsh cawl. We come across a man playing a melancholy tune on his violin, and I feel a sharp pang of regret that I’ve yet to pick up mine. We listen until the song is finished, nod in appreciation. We leave him a tenner in the open case at his feet and carry on down the pavement, hand in hand.

✹

Mid-afternoon light shines in beams through the treetops, highlighting our steps as they disturb the dirt path below. We’ve ventured out into the countryside, in search of a less paved paradise. The park that we now walk through is known to tourists for its reconstructed medieval village, and while I’m not much for history, John is intrigued.

“Could be interesting,” he muses, as we scan the webpage on my phone.

“Could be dangerous,” I reply, an eyebrow raised as I watch a memory from years gone by flicker over John’s face. 

He kisses me then, there in the park. Arms wrapped around my neck, on tiptoes—just like in the endings of films. I feel suspended in time, totally gone for him. The rest of the world now a distant memory. Mouth to mouth, heart to heart--we spin wildly into the void.

✹

I glance around as we pay the fee to the village, wondering what in God’s name I’ve gotten myself into. People roam around in medieval dress, pushing carts, selling wares, shouting to each other from one dwelling to the next—no doubt from a script they repeat every day.

We avoid the guided tours—obviously—and set off to learn on our own what life was like in fourteenth century Wales. We share a roll from the bakery and watch a combat reenactment until John rolls his eyes and insists we move on. We laugh and laugh, deducing tourists and staff alike, putting stories to the nameless figures that surround us.

✹

It’s nearing three o’clock when John grabs my arm and begins to tug me away from the hordes, toward the mostly-dormant gardens that lie on the edge of the village. He leads the way along winding footpaths, through the barren plant beds, heading straight for a small white shed peeking out near the forest beyond.

As we approach the simple wooden structure it’s clear that it’s been long neglected. Not a part of the winter tours, then. A hand painted sign on a post in the ground reads _ The Herbalist’s Hovel _, and when John pushes lightly on the weathered wooden door, it swings inward easily. He pulls me inside, pushes it shut, and suddenly we’re in a world of our own. 

We stand and stare at each other, the sound of our slightly elevated breathing filling this tiny room where we stand. I’m unclear what he wants to happen here. The moment is heavy, the air thick--both of our uncertainty hanging between us. John speaks first.

“I want you,” He breathes, blue eyes vulnerable and searching. Oh, _ God. _ I want you too, John. This thirty-one hour drought is the longest we’ve gone without jumping on each other since we began this thing between us. One would think that thirty-four years of celibacy would have better prepared me, but now that I’ve got him, I want him all the time. 

I step forward, grab his arse through his trousers and roughly pull our hips together. He backs me up against a strong wooden potting table and begins a slow grind, pinning me between his body and the hard surface behind.

We rub up against one another, an unhurried, languid hump. My hands roam as my pelvis rocks, each small thrust planting a bloom of heat within my gut. Sprouting and growing, vining ever upward to snake around my ribcage and suffocate my heart.

His lips on my throat, my jaw, my cheek as the relentless grind continues through the fabric of our trousers. He leans back slowly, looks up at me, then--promise and intention in his_ Forget Me Not _ eyes.

His mouth on my neck now, tongue caressing the ghost of a bruise. Unbuttoning my collar, he sucks lightly on my collarbone--rucks up my shirt and his palms meet my skin. Sliding, twining, tendrils blooming, the pads of his fingers bringing my flesh to life.

We come—together—with stifled groans and breathy shouts. We stand—together—in each other’s arms, affection blooming like wildflowers through our beating hearts.

We tidy ourselves up as much as is possible with the limited resources of a medieval garden shed. Stride back out to face the world, a bit rumpled, bit wrecked, but hand in hand.

✹

It’s late afternoon now, and we’ve just pulled up to the cottage. I watch John unfasten his seatbelt, remove his gloves carefully and place them in the pockets of his jacket. Stalling, then. So am I. Both hesitant to break the spell that’s been over us all day—out, together, in this town that’s not our own.

He looks over at me, finally, searching my face. For what, I don’t know. I want to say _ you’re perfect _ . Want to tell him every moment of this day has been stored safely away in my mind palace to be replayed regularly for the rest of my life. I want to say _ I love you. _But I’m afraid it’ll lose its potency if I say it every time I’m compelled to. If I did that, I’d never stop—

“I love you,” He says. Oh, John. Did I say all that aloud? No, no he’s only reading my mind again. Searching my face and seeing my thoughts there. Scrolling across my cheekbones like a neon marquee. “Today was perfect,” He says, too. I reach for his hand, press his knuckles to my lips. Kiss each pad of his fingers. He watches me carefully, reading the waves of emotion that roll off of me whenever I’m with him—impossible to contain. A smile. His hand on my cheek.

He understands. He always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reproduction medieval village is for reals. I've never been there--never been anywhere near the Vale or even the UK--but, as it turns out, the internet has a veritable wealth of information. 
> 
> There really is a little shed there that they've named _The Herbalist's Hovel_ as well. Ridiculous. And a perfect setting for smut laced with botanical metaphor. ❀


	20. Twenty

Mycroft goes straight for the box of macarons I’ve just set on the worktop. We had stopped into a small  pâtisserie  on our way out of town, carefully selecting a variety of confections. I elect not to comment (this time) on the two and a half pounds he’s gained since last week. Must be some sort of international crisis at play, giving him an undue amount of stress. Odd, too, that he would come to Penarth on a weekday, come to think of it.

My mother insists on giving us a tour of her gardens, despite it being mid-November. There’s not much to see, but we get the idea. She makes us promise to return in the spring to see it in its full glory. It’s clear that she’s put a lot of time into planning and cultivating a space all her own. It’s nice that she has this. Something warm to balance out the cold logic that has dominated most of her life.

We’ve all moved to the sitting room, lazing about before dinner, discussing the upcoming holiday. Mummy wants us to spend it here, but I’m hesitant to agree. Would really just like to remain at Baker Street, with John. The holidays have never meant much to me, but I know how important they are to him, especially now. Perhaps we can host a gathering, as we did for our first and only Christmas together. Bring the people we love into our home.

Mycroft is watching us. His eyes glide over my arm around John’s shoulders, his body pressed against mine. How easily we exist in each other’s space. Calm. Still. I watch him right back.

After dinner, he stops me in the hall with a light hand to my arm. I pause, look down at it, struck a bit dumb by this almost affectionate gesture. “I think it’s nice, you know,” My God, what is this? “You’re good for each other.”

I stare at him, a bit alarmed. “What has gotten into you?”

“I just think it’s nice.”

✹

After a fire and a hot toddy nightcap, we all retire to our rooms. I feel a bit relieved that we’ll be leaving tomorrow, getting back to our life at Baker Street.

“Your dad is dropping us off at the station tomorrow, then?” John asks as he walks out of the loo and pulls off his jumper.

“Mm,” I’m barely listening, watching as he removes each piece of clothing, stripping down to his pants. I realize I’ve been staring when I look up and find him smirking at me. Slowly, eyes boring into mine, he steps out of his pants. Tosses them at me then, and I laugh as he crawls under the covers to join me in bed.

I look over at him for a moment, now overly aware of the adoration I feel, raging like a river through my veins. I pull off my vest, swiftly slide down my pyjamas and pants. Toss them aside. I pause, giving a moment of thought to my family in the rooms surrounding us, then immediately dismiss all concern. We’ll be silent. A challenge.

I climb on top of John, straddling his hips and lining up my shaft with the crease between his thigh and groin. Palming his growing erection with my right hand and running my fingers across my own nipple with the left, I begin to rock forward against the tight groove, back, forth. John watches, heart racing as I harden against his flesh.

I line us up now, leaning forward above him. Brace myself with hands against the mattress, rock back, forth, faster, faster. A steady thrust, delicious friction. 

When John begins to whimper, I clasp a hand over his mouth. Collapse against his body and thrust,  _ thrust _ . When he snakes an arm around me and runs his fingers through the crack of my arse, my strangled gasp breaks abruptly through the silence, and there’s a defiant fire in his eyes.

He keeps up the tease as I savagely snap my hips, each trying to coax forbidden sound from the other. His finger tracing, firmly taunting—and when finally he presses  _ in _ , he pulls my face down to his neck, muffling my choked off shout.

Still lying where we landed when we tipped over the edge, I thread my fingers through his silvery hair, run the tip of my tongue along his throat. He swallows. I grin.

Roll off of his body, wipe the mess up with discarded pants. He cozies up next to me and I pull the covers over our heads. Safe, cocooned, content, we sleep.

✹

We have a lie in the next morning, and when we resurface downstairs we’re shuffled right out the door to head to brunch. All five of us pile into the Jeep, and we drive out to a large stone farmhouse that’s been converted into a restaurant. As we walk in, my mother raves about the farm-to-table menu and the lovely decor. I roll my eyes, but I know she’ll be right. She’s always had impeccable taste.

And she is. It’s fantastic. As I make my way through a lush eggs benedict, I take a moment to be glad for my newfound appreciation of food. John seems to be similarly chuffed about it—he’s grinning at me over his lemon crêpe.

My father asks John if he’ll be writing again now that we’ve begun taking cases. The topic of the blog leads to a question that I don’t want to answer, and really never wanted to be asked.

“Did you two know--before--that there was something between you?” It’s Mummy who asks it—of course it is—and John and I share a pained glance. The answer, unfortunately, is  _ yes _ . Of course we did. She’s asking now because she saw it in the way he wrote about me. Heard it in the way I spoke of him. 

We’ve acknowledged it, our regret. Accepted the painful fact that we were so insistent on keeping our walls up that we denied ourselves this kind of love. But it’s still difficult to voice it aloud. “I did,” John says. “But I hadn’t admitted it to myself, at the time.” He looks mournful, remorseful. And I can’t find the words.

It’s Mycroft that comes to our rescue. “Well thank God you’ve both come to your senses,” He sets his napkin down, takes a sip of his tea. “Really, it was becoming difficult to watch.”

✹

While we’re saying our goodbyes, my mother shuffles John off to the side to speak with him. I ignore Mycroft’s inane babble and try to eavesdrop, but my attempts are fruitless. John is nodding, smiling. They embrace. He laughs.

“What did she say to you?” I ask as we shove our luggage in the racks aboard the train. 

He looks over at me. A slight pause. “She said she’s glad that we came, that she’d like to spend Christmas with us,” He hesitates, taking his seat and looking out the window for a long moment. “And that it’s clear we’re the best thing that’s ever happened to each other, and we’d better not fuck it up.”

✹

It’s Friday night. Apparently that means something if you’re a current or former member of the Blackheath Rugby Club. John has gone out to meet his old team at the pub, and I’ve opted to remain at the flat. It’s not that I didn’t want to go, per se. I generally want to be wherever John is--even if that happens to be in a rundown pub surrounded by raucous and tiresome ex-atheletes. 

No, I stayed behind because I didn’t want to make John uncomfortable. Wasn’t about to show up and be the looming, undeniable proof that he is, in fact,  _ not  _ not gay. Whatever title he wants to give it, he is irrefutably in a committed romantic relationship with a male member of the human race. And despite coming out in a very public way on Monday, I suspect that in this type of situation--a pub full of brawny jocks--it would be easier if I just remained home.

I think about texting him ( _ Bored. SH) _ but I’d rather not be a nuisance. Surely he’s thrilled to be out with people who aren’t cursed with the Holmes surname. And anyway, I need to learn to keep myself entertained--to find an outlet--so that my unpredictable shifts in mood don’t drive John away.

It’s time, I think, to bring the Stradivarius into this new chapter of life.

I set the case on the desk and open the lid, staring down at this object that was once like another limb to me. I pick it up, tuck it under my chin. Run a hand over the wood, reacquaint myself with the feel of it. Mycroft has clearly had it prepared for me--new strings, recently rehaired bow. Oddly thoughtful. Middle age is softening him, in both belly and temperament.

Tuned, rosined, ready to go, I begin to play. 

I’m surprised and pleased to find that my technique is returning naturally. I am most certainly out of practice, but sense memory is prevailing. As I methodically go through the motions, my mind drifts back to John. I wonder if what my mother said is true, for him. It certainly is for me--he is undeniably the best thing in my life. But he had a life before me. And after me. And now with me. Has held onto old friends, kept in touch with acquaintances from decades back. Has lived as a soldier, a doctor. Now he’s gone all in with me--the dice have been rolled. Fate has been tempted.

If we’re going to live together, work together, love each other, we’ll have to maintain some sort of independence. I don’t want to be a burden on him. I fear that in some ways, I already am.

It occurs to me, now, that a considerable amount of time has passed while I was lost in the throes of a diligent practice session. Better check the time, make sure John hasn’t been abducted. Constant irrational concern: another thing that will eventually drive him away. I pick up my phone from the kitchen worktop where I left it. Just after one AM. New texts from John.

_ Can’t believe you haven’t texted to say you’re bored. _

_ It’s been a whole hour. _

_ Looks like you’re managing to stay entertained. _

_ Usually no response from you means you’re in a sulk _

_ I hope you aren’t _

_ I hope youre reading these _

_ Wish you had come _

_ Want the boys to meet you _

_ They would love you you know _

_ brent brought his wife wirh _

_ nobody minds _

_ maybe if we were maried youd have come _

_ maybe we shoudl be _

I stand in stunned silence and stare at John’s gradually declining grasp on the English language. Is he upset that I didn’t come? Does he want to  _ marry me _ ? I am entirely baffled by this string of texts, the last of which was sent twenty minutes ago. It’s late, and he’s obviously quite intoxicated. We won’t be talking about any of this tonight.

It’s clear, though, that I was wrong to worry. He did want me there, and I should have gone. This thing between us is still new and feels fragile, but I really have got to stop doubting him. It’s not fair to him, and I can’t be responsible for poisoning our relationship with my own insecurities.

Overcome with a sudden urge to wrap him up in my arms, I hurriedly type out a text.

_ Come home. SH _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's string of texts was inspired by the scene in The Office (US) where Jim is spending a bunch of time stuck in his head, being down on himself and minimizing his feelings for Pam, and then listens to his voicemail to find she's left him like twelve adorable messages throughout the day. Ah, love.


	21. Twenty One

I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s still quite early, and John’s sleeping form is rising and falling to my left, a lightly snoring lump huddled under the duvet. Must have been another nightmare, but I couldn’t remember it if I tried. At least I didn’t wake John this time.

He had stumbled in around two last night. Kissed me sloppily and went right to bed. He’ll be hungover when he wakes--he tasted of whiskey, vodka  _ and _ lager. A regrettable combination.

We have our physicals and screenings today, to be completely sure we’re both in the clear. And we both know exactly why we’re rushing to get the results. It’s not as if I see penetrative sex as some sort of  _ be-all and end-all _ , but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t seem somehow hugely significant for us. 

While everything we’ve done together has been completely new to me and mostly unfamiliar to John, this is undeniably on another level. We’ll breach each other’s bodies in what is certainly the most intimate way possible for human beings—the closest we can physically be. I find this concept extremely appealing, and I, for one, do not want there to be a barrier between us. And, so it seems, neither does John. And so we’ll be tested.

I hop out of bed and jump into the shower. May as well make an early start of it. Mind still flipping through a slideshow of John in various pornographic scenarios, I lather up and take myself in hand. This isn’t something I’ve ever needed to do often, and have never found it  _ quite _ as electrifying as most people seem to. In moments like this, however, I can see the appeal.

I conjure an image of John, sliding down to his knees in front of my chair.  _ I want to try something,  _ he’d said. I think of being immediately overwhelmed by sensation when his warm mouth enveloped me. My entire body coming alive in a way it had never before. Will this new step we’re taking be similarly intoxicating? I hope it will. I suspect it will.

My soap-slicked hand glides rapidly along my shaft, pulling pleasure to the surface to coil within my gut. An image of John, pounding, _ slamming _ into me. The weight of him gliding between my thighs.  _ Over and over. _ Now the same image, but he’s driving  _ in _ to me. Deep inside my body, filled with his hot, solid flesh--

At this depraved thought, I erupt-- _ forcefully _ \--all over the tiles in front of me. Hand on the wall, panting heavily, I slowly regain my composure. How will it feel? To have our bodies linked in such a way--I shiver. Must put this out of my mind. Can’t stand here all day with my cock in my hand.

I wipe off the tiles, finish washing and step out. John is still fast asleep, so I wrap up in my dressing gown and start a pot of coffee. I pop two pieces of bread in the toaster, set out a glass of water and the bottle of Paracetamol for John, whenever he rises.

I bring my mug and a plate of toast to the coffee table and run downstairs to grab the paper. Mrs. Hudson hears me and pokes her head out, so I invite her up. I make her a cup of tea ( _ Coffee, at my age? Heavens, no. _ ) and we settle in on the couch. She inquires about our trip to the Vale, asks how my parents are doing. Wants to know how they liked John.

It’s nice to chat with someone about him. It’s difficult to walk around feeling like an overflowing vat of emotion and having nowhere to put it all. I tell her the trip was lovely. My parents are fine. They adored him. “How has it been, Sherlock? You know--the intimacy? You’ve never gone in for that sort of thing before, have you?” Well, she doesn’t hold anything back. I suppose I’ve always appreciated that about her.

“It’s been good.”

“Yes, but how has it  _ been _ ? If you’re new to all this--it can be a lot to adjust to. Especially for you, I would think.” Is it? It really hasn’t been. John was so careful to take things in steps that I was rarely overwhelmed, despite my tendencies toward the dramatic. From the moment he first touched me on that bench at the park, it just felt like things were finally, gradually, falling into place.

“It  _ has _ been good,” I consider what else to say. She won’t accept just  _ good _ , clearly. And she’s not getting any details. “It’s been more than someone like myself could have hoped for.”

John chooses this moment to shuffle out of the bedroom in his pants. Mrs. Hudson titters, says “I’ll be going then. You boys have fun.” And takes her leave.

As I enter the kitchen, he’s swallowing down the Paracetamol and mumbling a “Thanks,” as he drops into a chair at the table, head drooping immediately down. “Dying.”

“Hopefully not,” I say—although, really, one never knows. He opens one eye from where his head lies on the table and squints up at me.

“Hi,” He says.

I smile. “Hello.”

“Hope I wasn’t too obnoxious when I came home.”

“Not at all.”

“I don’t remember much.”

“You should check your outgoing text messages,” This slips out before I can stop it.  _ Idiot. _ I know better than to start any sort of serious conversation while he’s in this state. No need to add misery to misery. But I know that I won’t be able to stop myself from prodding at his offhand statement about marriage. “Later,” I add, hopelessly.

“Oh, God, what did I say?” He sits up.

“Nothing to be worried about. I meant nothing by it.” He narrows his eyes at me, but lets it go. I head over to make him some toast.

“I don’t even know where my phone is,” He glances around the kitchen. Jeans pocket. Bedroom. “We have to go into the clinic at eleven,” He groans, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I feel like rubbish. Too old for this. My own bloody fault.”

“Here,” The toast. “Eat something,” Eat the toast. “You’ll feel better,” You probably won’t. You’ll likely vomit it up. But after  _ that _ you may feel better.

He eats the toast. I hide his phone. Same as it ever was.

✹

“Must’ve left it at the pub. Sodding hell,” We’re in a cab on the way back from the clinic and John is  _ still _ trying to deduce where he’s left his phone. We’ve each had full physicals and have been tested for everything known to man. We’ll have our results later today, thanks to the influence of my charming big brother. “I am such a bloody drunken idiot.”

“It’s in the slipper.”

A pause. “You hid my phone?”

“Yes.”

A sigh. “All right. Can’t wait to see what’s in my outgoing text messages.”

✹

“Oh, God. Sherlock--”

“It’s fine John. I know it was nothing. All fine.”

“Look--it’s--” He trails off. “I--”

“It’s  _ fine _ , John.”

“No listen,” He sighs. “I--this is forever, for me. You and me, I mean. I’m not going anywhere. Ever,” I stare at him, afraid to blink. “I--don’t want to get married. I shouldn’t have said that. And to be perfectly honest, it’s ninety-nine percent because I’m worried about what people would think of me. Because Mary  _ just _ died. And while that doesn’t affect how I feel about you, not in any way at all, I still think it would be too soon,” A pause. “That text was—irresponsible of me. I don’t even know how you feel about the idea. I’m sorry if it was confusing.” He stops talking and looks back at me, waiting.

“Oh.”

He gives me a look. “Do you  _ want _ to get married, Sherlock?” That’s direct. No doubt he thinks that I’m repulsed by the concept of marriage. Meaningless pronouncements. Ridiculous fluff. Happily ever whatever.

“Yes, John. Obviously,” Bet you weren’t expecting that. I can be direct, too.

“Oh.” His eyes go wide.

“I was surprised when you mentioned it at all. Even in an intoxicated text message. I never thought you’d consider it.”

“Why wouldn’t I? You know I’m not opposed to marriage.”

“Yes,” I hesitate, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “I never thought you’d consider it--with me.” Well, it’s true. This is the first time he’s said  _ forever _ . And while I planned on keeping him for as long as I could possibly manage, I didn’t know  _ forever _ was on the table.

“Idiot,” He stands up quickly and drops right into my lap, legs sprawled over the arm of my chair. “I’ve told you I’m committed to you in any way you want me,” He did say that, didn’t he. Perhaps I am an idiot. Kisses me now. Soft, slow. Then his head on my shoulder, arms ‘round my waist. We stay there like that, for a very long time. Peaceful, content, hopeful.


	22. Twenty Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mental Health Awareness Day! 
> 
> Decided to post a third (shorter) chapter today, since it's pretty relevant. I am obviously pro-therapy, and it's an ongoing theme in the show, so it makes a pretty heavy appearance throughout this story. I think it's important, too, to acknowledge what Sherlock went through (the show never really did) so his PTSD is affecting him in everyday life in my version of events. 
> 
> Warning for another (almost) panic attack.
> 
> ♡

“Both all clear. Well that was nearly painless,” John is beaming at me. Clicks his phone off and practically skips over to the couch where I lie. “Let’s go celebrate. Order some champagne—those stupid little posh folded napkins. All of it.”

I grin. “I can fold a napkin into the Sydney Opera House.”

“You’re a bloody liar. Get up, let’s go!”

✹

We decide on sushi. Pairs well with champagne, John says. I wouldn’t know. Can’t recall the last time I had champagne. Perhaps never? Why am I thinking about this? Oh. Nervous. I’m extremely nervous.

“What do you think, sashimi and a dragon roll? I’ll probably get salmon and yellowtail,” It’s as if now that we’re in the clear, the pressure is on. I’ve done my research. I know what could go wrong. We haven’t prepared for this at all. “Maybe a volcano roll—Sherlock? All right?” We can’t talk about this here. We shouldn’t have gone out at all. Why am I suddenly worried about this? This morning I had no such concerns. But what if it’s terrible? What if we hurt each other? God, I can feel the panic coming now. Hard to breathe. So irrational. I have to get this under control. “You’re okay. Look at me. Try to slow your breathing,” He’s holding my face. Breathing deliberately. Just like the last time this happened. I sync our breaths, mine coming out a bit ragged. This is embarrassing. I lower my eyes. “You’re all right,” Fingers on my nape, now. “Sherlock,” I look back up at him. Why is this happening? “All right?” I nod. I can breathe again. So yes.

He doesn’t say anything else about it, just rubs his hand up and down my back. Tells the waitress we need a moment when she comes to take our order.

“John,” I have to tell him what that was about. No getting around it. Can we have this conversation here? “I—“

“Do you want to go talk somewhere less out in the open?”  _ Yes. _ I nod once. They won’t hold our table—it’s Saturday night—so we leave. There’s an all-night diner two doors down that’s nearly empty. We grab a booth, tucked away in a corner. Order two cups of tea, and pay right away. “It’ll just be this, thanks,” And the waiter leaves us alone.

John says nothing, just patiently waits.

“John, it’s—I—“ I stop stammering, take a deep breath, let my eyes close and my head drop down on the exhale. “I’m—quite nervous.” Vague. I don’t know how to say this.

He sounds puzzled. “About what, Sherlock? What’s going on here?” I look up at him then, and watch comprehension slowly dawn on his face. He must have read it on mine. “Have you been worried—is this about the test results? Like there’s some sort of expectation now?”

“Essentially. I’m aware it’s irrational.”

“Oh, God,” He shakes his head. Swallows. “Sherlock—I’m also quite bloody nervous about that. I’ve never—this is something new for both of us, you know. And there is no bloody rush,” He looks down at his hands, where they rest on the table, then back up to meet my eyes. “I wanted to get tested for my own peace of mind, that’s all. So that we don’t have to think twice in the future. Because I do want that,” He grabs my hand, pulls it across the table to hold onto. “But only if you do. And I’m not interested in rushing into anything that we don’t feel ready for.”  _ God. _ When did he learn to be so articulate? I can hardly manage three syllables, and he somehow knows exactly what to say. Perhaps therapy does have its merits. “I wanted to celebrate tonight because I’m quite relieved that Mary’s indiscretions aren’t going to haunt us,” That makes sense. Why hadn’t I given any thought to that? He must have been concerned from the moment he found out about David. The things you don’t consider when you’ve never been in a relationship—“And because I bloody well love you.”

At this, I smile. Relief flooding through me. I could have just asked him about this at any time. I don’t like this new habit of getting worked up over nothing. “I love you, John.”

✹

We end up picking up a bottle of champagne, ordering Chinese takeaway, and heading back to Baker Street. 

I build a fire while John fishes two champagne flutes out of the cupboard (what possible reason do those have for being there?). We perch on the floor by the fire and eat straight out of the styrofoam boxes.

“Are we going to take cases this week?” John asks, shoveling Kung Pao Chicken into his mouth.

I’d like to. I’d like to regularly, now that we’ve found some semblance of normalcy. “I think so, yes. If you’re amenable.”

“‘Course,” A bit of rice lands on his shirt. “Looking forward to it. London has been lost without Sherlock Holmes,” I roll my eyes. Idiot.

✹

Teeth brushed, clothing discarded, we climb into bed and our mouths meet at last. 

John’s hands roam firmly over my body, a current vibrating through his fingers and charging my flesh. My palms trace a path along his shoulder blades, and we’re buzzing, humming. Dynamic. Electric.

Tongues gliding, sparking, teeth clacking, jolting. Vigorous friction and a magnetic force. I grab John’s hand and guide him down, down. “Let’s—“

“Yeah,” He breathes. “All right, yeah.” He slicks his fingers, rubs gently, then firmly. His other hand strokes a steady rhythm along my shaft. Up, down. 

I feel my body begin to relax. “All right,” I say. “Now.”

My eyes flutter closed, my hands grip the sheets, as one finger glides slowly, gradually inside me. A completely new sensation—an intruder, but a welcome one. 

The continuous moan slipping out from my lips turns into a hoarse cry when his finger brushes lightly against my prostate. “Okay?” He asks. As if I’d ever felt anything better. As if he hadn’t just flipped a switch and ignited each cell of my being. When I look down at him and our eyes meet he laughs. “Okay,” He says. “Clearly.”

He pulls his finger back slightly. Out, then back in. Another brush, another shout. A relentless rhythm, in, out. I’m unfurling, unspooling. Unchained. Unbound.

An added pressure: a second finger. My chest is heaving, sweat pools on my brow. In, out, a jolt, a shout. And I’m spiraling, spinning. Completely unwound.

When my eyes finally open, John is at my side. Always right where I want him to be, right where I need him. “You’re perfect,” I say, for the first time out loud. He laughs. Presses his lips to mine. 

“You’re compromised,” Runs his fingers through my hair. “We’ll see if you still feel that way in the morning.”

He’s nearly there just from watching me, so I finish him with my mouth. I enjoy this—the taste of him, the feel of him. 

I slide back up the bed and curl myself around his body. We drift slowly into sleep together—warm, safe. Content as I’ve ever been, with my lips pressed softly against his spine.


	23. Twenty Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case in this chapter is based on [this real-life mystery](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Gareth_Williams): The quite famous case of Gareth Williams. Some of the details are off. It's intentional.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

I awaken to John crawling onto my sleeping body and grinning widely down at me from where he’s straddling my thighs. We get off together quickly with familiar friction (and just one of his iniquitous fingers), roll out of bed and into the shower.

I fry up some sausages while he makes the toast, and we laugh through breakfast--sipping our coffees as he teases me about our new favourite  _ path to glory _ . Juvenile. He’s perfect, the idiot.

I feel immeasurably better about this new facet of our physical relationship. It occurs to me, now, that my sporadic bouts of panic are brought on by the unknown, not by anything in particular. Not by sex and certainly not by John. I’m beginning to accept that perhaps I do need to work on this. Perhaps I should dig out that shiny blue business card.

We spend the day lazing about in our chairs. John reads through cases in my email, and I solve most of them without moving my arse. The few non-idiotic ones that require more data, we respond to with follow-up questions. The email and blog inquiries are working well enough for the time being--not quite ready to let clients wander into 221B without warning, like before. We’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to turn away those who show up, and she points them towards thescienceofdeduction.co.uk with a smile.

Later, we make dinner--chicken and veg--and then cuddle up on the couch to watch a film. We fall asleep that way, huddled together under blankets, warm and snug. A Sunday well spent.

✹

I yawn and stretch on the couch where we still lie. We’ve both slid down at some point in the night, John facing my side, and he stirs as I reach my arms above my head and let out a satisfied groan.

“Still tired,” He mumbles, face pressed into my chest. “Go back to sleep.” I sit up, swiftly dislodging him. “Mmph.  _ Why? _ ” He whines.

“Sorry, John, time to get up and greet the day.” I shove at him gently until he sits up.

“You’re an arse,” He grumbles, but he stands anyway. Stretches, then--up,up--his vest lifting enough to expose a tempting sliver of skin. I grab for it, wrap my fingers around his waist. Pull him back down and kiss him soundly. “Good morning to you, too,” He says with a grin as I break away and rise to my feet. He slaps my arse and heads for the loo.

Today, I’ve decided, I’ll be calling the therapist that Ella recommended for me. Nothing to lose, and a better understanding of my complicated psyche to gain. I’m growing tired of the lack of control I feel over my own behavior. John has dealt with my panic attacks admirably, but I’d rather learn to prevent them entirely--or at least find new ways to cope. When I mention this to John, he is relatively shocked. 

“I was positive I’d completely scared you off the idea when I dragged you to meet Ella.”

“You didn’t drag me, John. I wanted to meet her. And while honestly the idea is a bit off-putting, I’ve accepted that it may be beneficial.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Well you’ve surprised me, Sherlock. I’m glad you’re willing to give it a try.” 

I don’t say  _ You’ve inspired me, John. _ I don’t say  _ I see how you’ve grown and I want that, too. _ “We’ll see how it goes,” Is what comes out of my mouth.

✹

When I call, Dr. Joel Fleischman tells me that he’s had a cancellation tomorrow at ten, and that I should come in then for an introductory session. He’s American, his accent informs me. New York--specifically Queens, by the sound of it. And Ella had told him to expect my call.

I research him--obviously--and find out that he’s spent his years as a medical doctor in both New York City and Cicely, Alaska. Educated at Columbia University, and he’s turned his talents from the physical to the mental health realm in the last decade. He’s been practicing in London for the past seven years. 

He also comes highly recommended, and I am not entirely dreading our meeting. Well done, Ella.

“Think you’ll talk to him?” John looks a bit skeptical, a bit amused. It  _ would _ be just like me to go and sit in silence for forty-five minutes.

“I intend to give it a fair shot, John,” And I do. I’ll answer the man’s questions and see what he has to say. “I’m not willing to go the rest of my life living panic attack to panic attack. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us,” This wipes the smirk off his face. He nods.

“Well, you know how much it’s helped me. And I didn’t want to go, at first.” This is true. When we first met, he had been extremely reluctant about going, and abandoned it shortly thereafter. “It was Ella who made me start the blog, you know,” I do know. I remember the day I found the damned thing. Entirely depressing, until he began to write about--”And you who made it interesting.” 

Well. It’s nice that we agree.

✹

_ Might have something for you _

_ I’m all ears. SH _

_ Body found decomposing, locked in a bag _

_ Like a gym bag _

_ No prints _

_ Bag was found in his hotel loo _

_ In the bleeding bathtub _

_ Key to lock was in bag with body _

_ We’re on our way. SH _

✹

We find Lestrade at the hotel, (John got the location, as I was  _ too bloody wound up to remember to ask _ , as he so delicately put it) hovering in the hallway outside room two-forty-two. He’s pacing now, on the phone looking stressed. When he hangs up, he scowls. “Might bloody lose this one. Looks like it’s more complicated than we’d realized.”

“Then we’d better hurry up and have a look.”

We step around the wandering masses of forensics and head straight for the loo. There is, indeed, a large, orange duffel bag--the type one may use for camping trips--in the tub. And within it, the curled up, naked body of a man in his thirties.

“Only just got here an hour ago,” Says Lestrade from the doorway. “Body apparently matches the description of a missing MI6 agent, so we might be packing up and shipping out.”

“Really?”  _ Interesting _ . “Interesting.”

Lestrade snorts. “Yeah, well they take over all the interesting ones, innit?” Lucky for me then that my brother, too, will almost certainly be calling on me for assistance.

John pokes around the rest of the hotel room while I examine the body. No prints almost certainly means foul play. What happened here? Could he have possibly locked himself in this bag?  _ With _ the key? It was found beneath his body, I suppose it’s possible he couldn’t reach--but no. Ridiculous. He didn’t do this to himself. Who, then, was after a supposed SIS agent? And who on Earth would choose  _ this _ as their preferred method of elimination? Someone interesting, that’s for certain.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

_ You’re to leave at once. _

_ Consider this case now out of your hands. _

_ Piss off. SH _

_ You’ll need me. SH _

_ We will not be requiring your assistance. _

_ It’s being handled. _

_ You must leave. _

I ignore this idiocy and continue my investigation, finding little and growing more and more intrigued. We’re escorted out eight minutes later by a flock of bloody  _ men in black _ , who lock us out of the room without so much as a word. I call my brother.

“Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“This case is not for you. Go home.”

“Explain.”

“I will not.”

I begin to see red at his complete unwillingness to give over any data. I cannot fathom why this, of all cases, is the one that he prevents me from investigating. I stand there, clutching the phone to my ear, trying to keep my breathing in check.

“Sherlock? Are you still there?” 

I hang up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Joel Fleischman and the (fictional) town of Cicely, Alaska are from Northern Exposure--my absolute favorite television show in existence. The characters in NoEx are as real to me as these two men are, so I figured I'd bring one of them to London to help Sherlock figure out his shit. ♡


	24. Twenty Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The metaphor in this one got a bit out of hand. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

I pace around the living room of 221B, as I’ve been doing for the last hour and a half. John has been determinedly ignoring me, seated in his chair with his nose in a book. Probably one of the absurd mystery crime novels he’s dug back out now that his own detective has come back to life. He’ll need them to entertain himself if my insolent brother continues to prevent us from taking part in any of the interesting cases--

“Let’s have sex,” I stop abruptly, one foot still slightly in the air. I sway a bit where I stand.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me. I want to see what you can do with all that--" He waves his hand around in my general direction. "--frustrated energy you’re putting off,” It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had. Not even close. I consider this. “Or we could play Cluedo, if you’d rather.” He smirks.

“You want to see--”

“Come on,” He stands up, grabs my hand, and drags me to the couch. He lies right down on his back and pulls me on top of him. “Move.”

I don’t move. In fact, I’m struck a bit dumb by this entire turn of events. I stare down at him, blankly. John rolls his eyes and tugs on my hair to bring our mouths together. As soon as he bites down--_ hard _ \--on my lower lip, I’m gone. _ The game is on. _

All the pent up frustration of a moment ago comes rushing back in, ringing in my ears and making my vision go red. My hands fumble at his waistline as my lips consume his tongue_ (a secret passage) _. Only he’s allowed. Jeans unfastened, I yank them down, throw them aside, pants and all. 

I hurriedly break the kiss and swallow him down. Tongue darting rapidly--tasting, savouring--cheeks slightly hollowed as he hardens in my mouth _ (Miss Scarlet in the kitchen with the lead pipe). _ I wrap my fingers around the base of his shaft, bob my head-- _ fast _ \--I’ll suck the breath right out of him. He’s frantically grasping at my curls, gasping as his hips thrust up into my mouth. I encourage this by grabbing at his lush cheeks and _ squeezing, _ his gasps and shouts firing off in rapid huffs _ (Colonel Mustard in the dining room with the revolver). _

I pull off with a _ pop _ , and he scrabbles at my arms, dragging me toward him and lunging at my mouth. Our kisses are all heat--fire and brimstone--and I hold on for dear life as he sinfully takes me down _ (Reverend Green in the study with the candlestick). _

Back in control, I rip his shirt off over his head. My fingers dance across his body, twist his nipples, lick his chest _ (Professor Plum in the ballroom with the spanner). _My hips rock relentlessly against his now leaking cock. Quickly freeing myself from the confines of my trousers, I line us up.

_ Friction. _ My favourite part. We move together with practiced ease, our gazes locked--unrelenting. He reads my body like a mystery novel, blue eyes piercing straight through my thundering heart. _ (Mrs. Peacock in the library with the dagger) _ Spilling tenderness like blood across his writhing flesh, I lean down, thrusting wildly and bring my mouth to his neck. I suck a bruise, scrape my teeth against soft skin. Tongue tracing a path like a noose across his throat, arm snaking around and down-- _ down (Mrs. White with the rope in the cellar). _

He comes with a desperate shout--body shaking, quaking. I follow close behind --collapsing, crumbling. We lie in a heap--breathing, buzzing--and a wave of relief washes over me.

✹

“You’ll be the bloody death of me,” John pants from where he lies beneath me. “At least now I know what to do with you when you’re bouncing off the bleeding walls.”

“Mm,” I’m only beginning to claw my way back to reality. I feel like a tightly wound spool that’s been snapped and unfurled--a pile of thread, lying loose and limber.

“That was brilliant though, you idiot,” He brings his arms up around my back, rubs up, down, as I lie boneless and drooling.

After a duration of time that I couldn’t quantify if I tried, we get up. Straight to the shower where we laugh, kiss messily, and wash each other’s hair--he truly cannot keep his fingers out of mine. I don’t mind. Not at all.

The day has gotten away from us--it’s nearly six. We skipped lunch, John is ravenous, and we’ve got nothing in. He’s still stomping around the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors when I suggest we go out.

“We go out_ constantly _ ,” Offended by the very suggestion. “Sherlock--my savings are dwindling, we aren’t taking cases--not really--you’ve only just come back from the bloody dead. How are we going to afford to live?” Feisty when he’s hungry, my John. I suppose I could tell him of the trust fund my family has recently restored my access to. I’d been cut off during the drugs phase, _ for my own good _, but clearly they think I’m above such enticements now. Or I could shrug and watch him squirm. “Sherlock!”

Fine. “John, you know my family has money. They’ve opted to share some of it with me. We’re fine,” He glares at me and I recall a conversation we’d had last week. “Let’s set up a joint account.”

He hesitates. “But it’s _ your _money. If we’re getting paid for cases, fine, it’s ours--but this is different.”

Ridiculous. “It’s _ family _ money, and you’re my family. We have the means to live comfortably, so let’s.” He doesn’t respond to this, just moves forward and wraps his arms around my waist. Kisses my jaw. What did I say? It seems I’ve somehow gotten this right. Whatever’s happening, I’m going to take it as a victory. “So--Thai?”

✹

We invite Mrs. Hudson to come along for dinner. She agrees enthusiastically (_ Oh! Frank loved Thai. There was this little place, in Florida-- _) and we quickly hail a cab.

The restaurant we end up at is casual and authentic. The food is lovely, and comes out fast--much to John’s relief. “Oh my God, this is perfect,” He mumbles around a mouthful of curry. Our table is loaded with plates of spring rolls, papaya salad, fried rice, pad thai--a veritable feast for three.

“Lovely, really,” Mrs. Hudson agrees with a nod. Well, this conversation is stimulating. “What have you two got planned for the holidays?”

“I was thinking we could host a gathering,” I blurt out. We haven’t talked about this once. Unsure what force has compelled me to mention the idea now. John may be absolutely dying to go spend Christmas at my parents’, for all I know.

“You were?” He’s still chewing. Really, John, _ manners _. “I--yeah. Yeah, that would be brilliant.”

“You didn’t have your heart set on Penarth?”

“Not really, no. Kind of wanted to spend it at home. The year we did that was the best Christmas of my life,” He pauses, smirks. “Despite your being in love with Irene Adler at the time.”

I scoff. “Please,” Not sure I could ever fully explain that one to him. But it certainly wasn’t love. Infatuation, perhaps. Something like that. A compelling adversary. And she did have a certain--something--underneath the desperation and false bravado. A certain warmth.

“Heard from her lately?” He’s still grinning. Does he know she still texts me? Not sure how he could. Long since destroyed that bloody ringtone. Several phones ago.

I narrow my eyes. “_ Anyway _\--yes. I think a gathering at 221B is just the thing. Mrs. Hudson? Would you like to be first on the guest list?”

“I’d love that. Oh, I can’t wait. This will be a holiday to remember.” I raise my eyebrows, but refrain from commenting on her fanciful phrasing. I too, tend to lean toward optimism and poetry these days.

✹

When we walk through the front door, I throw an arm out to keep the two of them behind me. “There’s someone here.”

“What? You’re sure?”

“Shh!” I ascend the first few steps. Then, sigh with relief. “Mycroft.” I can smell him. His posh cologne, reeking all over our stairwell.

“I’ll just be down here, then,” John says, retreating into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “Having a cuppa. Yeah, Mrs. H?”

When I walk into the flat, Mycroft stands immediately. Nods, solemnly. Something--off--about this.

“What is it?”

“Sherlock--” A very long pause. Smoothes his jacket, glances around the room. “We should--talk.” Odd.

“Talk, then.”

He sighs. “The man in the bag. He was MI6. We suspect he was involved in some questionable activity, drawing the attention of foreign agencies. It seems that he was approached--asked to become a double agent. He refused, and he ended up padlocked in a bag,” He pauses, looks down his nose at me. “You wouldn’t have found anything, because there is nothing to find. All that would come of your involvement in this case, would be you landing yourself in a bag of your own.”

A ringing silence fills the room between us. Not what I’d expected. Not at all. I stare at him.

“That’s not why you’re here.”

He looks back at me, unwaveringly. Deciding if he’ll continue.

“No.”

“What then?” He has something on his mind. He’s seemed odd for weeks now. Oddly kind, oddly indulgent, oddly present. Maybe he’s met someone? Would that be so difficult to say aloud? For him, perhaps. Is it something else? Something--whatever this is, he's stalling. "Mycroft. Will you just--"

“I’m ill.”


	25. Twenty Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fairly bleak. Some notes about Mycroft at the end!

My brow furrows. Ill? What does that mean, exactly? Surely he wouldn’t be telling me like this if he had simply caught a cold. I need data. Need to process this. He has access to the best medical care available in the UK. What could it possibly be, that it can’t be swiftly cured? It seems to have altered his entire demeanor--an extremely unsettling thing to witness. Why hadn’t I realized? I’d noticed he was going out of his way to be gracious. I’d noticed his odd behavior long ago, and never even considered that it could be--

“Sherlock,” I’m pulled from my frantic thoughts by his hand on my arm. Lightly. Just like in Penarth when he’d said that what John and I have is _ nice _ . “I wanted to tell you. I’m _ only _ telling you.” Why me? Why no one else? How am I meant to feel about this?

“So tell me,” I sound angry. Does this anger me?.

“An arteriovenous malformation. Inoperable.” An AVM. Inoperable, so likely in his brain. Gradual loss of neurological function. Memory loss. Seizures. Headaches. Persistent nausea. My mind rattles off the symptoms directly from the medical texts of my mind palace. Loss of vision. Hallucinations. Weakness. And that’s only if it doesn’t rupture and kill him first. Stroke. Brain damage. Death.

I move to the couch and sink down into it. He hesitates, then sits down beside me. “How long?” I breathe. I know that it’s not something one can accurately predict. I know that he doesn’t have an answer.

“It’s already begun. When I can no longer bear it, there’s an arrangement in place.”

I nod. An arrangement. He doesn’t want to watch his own mind deteriorate. I don’t want to watch it either. I don’t want any of this for him.

We sit in silence for quite a long while. Each lost in our own maudlin minds. Eventually, he stands.

“I know you’ll tell John,” I’ve got to. “But please, no one else.” He doesn’t want our parents to know. I don’t blame him. They’d treat him as if he were already dead. He walks to the door, takes his coat from the hook--

“Christmas,” I say, hurriedly. “Here. You must come.”

He gives me a long look and then nods once. Umbrella in hand, he walks out the door.

✹

John comes back upstairs shortly after Mycroft leaves. “Hey, I heard--” He stops, hesitates, then strides over and sits down next to me. “What is it?” He breathes.

I shake my head. I feel empty, numb. Don’t want to think about it, so I push it down, down. Can’t tell him now, I only want to sleep. I stand up and move like a ghost to the bedroom. Five minutes later, John follows.

He says nothing, just strips to his pants and climbs in. I had planned on being stubbornly solitary. Isolating myself on the far side of the bed. He places one hand on my back. A reminder. _ I’m here. _ Otherwise, he gives me space.

The tears come, then. His small gesture has shaken loose everything I’d hoped to bury deep. All of the ways my brother has supported me, everything he’s done that I’ve brushed off, scoffed at. As a lonely, disconsolate child--or half-dead with a needle in my arm--again, when I needed to disappear--

Sobbing, now. Folded up and chest heaving. John hasn’t tried to console me, but he hasn’t moved his hand. _ I’m here _. Eventually, I turn to him. Curl around him, press my face into his neck. He holds me while the tides of guilt and grief wash through me, and flood out by way of my tears.

I cry myself to sleep--not for the first time. But I have this, now. Someone to turn to.

✹

I arise disoriented, with puffy eyes. I’m lying on my stomach and there’s a weight across my back. _ John _. I must have rolled away in the night and he followed. The thought nearly makes the tears come again.

I roll, gently, toward him. He slides off and immediately nestles in against my chest. I tuck his head under my chin, circle his body with my limbs. All four of them. Safe, cocooned. 

The second time I wake, it’s to John softly brushing curls from my forehead. I look down at him and he peers back into my eyes. _ Blue _. He says nothing of last night. Asks nothing of my tears. Just brushes back my hair and lies still in my arms.

We rise at half eight, and he heads to make coffee and stale toast while I shower. We really must do the shopping today. I meet Dr. Fleischman at ten, and I’m more than a bit wary of walking into such a situation while I’m raw and wrecked. Nothing for it, though. Times like these are the reason I’m doing this. Can’t put all of my distress and grief on John’s shoulders alone.

John’s standing appointment with Ella is for today as well. Every Tuesday at eleven sharp. We hail a cab and venture there together: two damaged men on a path toward improvement.

My name is called at precisely ten o’clock. I find myself seated in a brown leather wingback, across from a man in his early fifties with kind eyes. His greying brown waves are not unlike my own. We sit in our matching armchairs, in this room with white walls, and it doesn’t feel stark--nor impersonal, as I’d expected. He’s brought objects from his past lives in, carrying with them an undeniable warmth. Reminders. A small hand-carved totem pole on the side board, a salt-tanned seal pelt on the wall. An intricately drawn map of New York city, done in pen and ink. On the table beside his chair sits a wheel thrown speckled mug. He clearly favours objects made not by machine, but forged by hand. An admirable collection.

He sits now, watching me take in our surroundings. Legs crossed, black leather shoe bobbing contentedly. He’s outfitted in a sharp charcoal suit, with a burgundy plaid shirt, much like something John would wear. I like him instantly.

“You know, there are standard questions I ask every time I meet a patient for the first time.”

“Yes, I’d expected as much.”

“I’ll just ask you the one. What brings you here?”

A good lead-in. Broad. One can respond as specifically or as vaguely as they need. I could be vague. Tell him I’d like to _ work on some things _ . Say I’m trying to _ better myself _. And either response would be true--but I’m here to solve my problems, not just to imply that I may have them. “You know who I am? What I do?” He nods. No use pretending when my face is plastered all over the news. Will save me a lot of preamble. I’ll be blunt. “I’m here because while I was off feigning death for two years, I was captured, tortured and interrogated. Even before that, I was living in solitude with a constant sense of unease. Now that I’m back home, I’ve managed to find myself in a relationship with the man I’ve loved through all of it,” I pause, unsure how to phrase the last of it. “--and despite being hardly able to believe my good fortune--I’m a bit of a mess.” I conclude, lamely. But that about covers it.

Another nod. “Any guesses on what’s going on there?”

“It’s been suggested by my partner that it may be post-traumatic stress disorder. A likely diagnosis, I think. Manifesting in the form of nightmares, panic episodes and spiraling negative thoughts.”

“And you’re here to learn to prevent these nightmares, episodes and thoughts?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Anything else you want me to know?” Is there? I suppose I could tell him that just yesterday my brother abruptly announced his likelihood of a short life. That I’ve taken him for granted my entire thirty-four years of existence, and that I sobbed myself to sleep over it last night. I could mention my crippling insecurity within my relationship with John. That deep down I expect him to leave me. That despite our profound connection, I fear I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. I suppose all of this will come out, in time. I’m already sure that I want to come back. This is a person I can speak freely with about such thoughts. Someone who I’ve no risk of pushing away, and who is legally bound to keep my secrets. 

“My feelings about--interpersonal relationships, in general--have changed, in my years away. Now that I’ve returned, it’s--important to me, to hold on to them. I am not an easy man to care for,” I hesitate, not entirely sure what I’m trying to say here. “I can’t lose John. Over this.” I sound a bit desperate. But that is the real issue, I suppose. How many panic attacks, how many tears, how many black moods will it take to drive him away? A person can only take so much.

“Do you think that’s likely?” The very question that I asked John, when Mary thought he’d leave her to resume a life with me. And it _ was _likely. He had already decided to, although I didn’t know it at the time.

“I think that if I don’t try to move forward, he will grow to resent me.”

A nod. He sits forward in his chair. Hands clasped together, elbows on his knees. “That’s healthy, Sherlock. These are common concerns. Your being here means that you’ve chosen to do something about them for your partner’s wellbeing and for your own.”

Well all right, then.

The rest of the hour involves Dr. Fleischman--(_ You’re welcome to call me Joel _)--Joel--outlining what I can expect from our future sessions. He says he appreciates that I’m able to be forthright about my goals and concerns. He says that he’s optimistic. So am I. We make a standing appointment for Mondays at nine, shake hands, and I return to John in the waiting room.

He hasn’t been called in by Ella yet, and we have a few moments to ourselves. “How was it?” He asks, eyebrows raised, face open and encouraging as ever.

“Good,” I look down at him now--study this face that I love and think of how far he’s come, how much he’s grown. Feeling hopeful, I smile. “It’ll be good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Here's the thing:** I am no sort of medical expert. I knew someone who went through the horrors of a brain AVM, but that doesn't mean I know what I'm talking about. If I offend anyone, I'm very sorry. I'm open to any corrections.
> 
> Perhaps it's stupid, but the idea to give Mycroft a condition that affects his mind was spawned partially by the "Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all." line when Sherlock tells him he's slipping. As if middle age alone makes people less clever. Anything that would cause memory loss and loss of brain function would be extremely upsetting to a Holmes. Also sort of distantly inspired by [Alone on the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/210785), which is easily the most memorable and moving Sherlock fic I've come across.
> 
> **Spoilers about Mycroft if you're concerned:** I'm not going to kill him off in this story. I LOVE Mycroft, and honestly think he gets a bad rap (although it's extremely amusing in the show, and I wouldn't want it any other way) but I thought it would be interesting to humanize him and see the shift in his relationship with Sherlock. I also will say that I've seen how an illness like this can change a person's priorities, and I am intrigued by the idea of a character like Mycroft finding some sort of lust for life. That's it! Thanks for reading.


	26. Twenty Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the chapter count yet again, because I can't seem to stop adding to this rambling saga.
> 
> This chapter is quite short. 
> 
> Also: I may not post tomorrow, but fear not, it has not been abandoned.

We get sushi for lunch, since our last attempt to consume raw fish was foiled by intrusive thoughts and labored breathing. We order a variety of nigiri and a dragon roll to share. John is as happy as a clam. 

He’s had a productive hour with Ella--speaking mainly about our relationship, he says. I look forward to talking with Joel about John. I have no real concept of what’s acceptable in a romantic relationship, and while things have been working incredibly well between us so far, we aren’t exactly normal. There may be things that won’t work long-term. I’ll appreciate the insight.

I want to tell John about Mycroft, but I’m not sure how to bring it up. I don’t want to have to actually say it aloud, irrational as that may be. He’ll ask, eventually, but he’ll give me time to come to him first. Soon.

✹

After lunch, I take John to the bank. I didn’t tell him we were doing this, fearing he’d find another reason to argue the point. But here we are. Signing on the dotted line. Combining our lives in yet another way. I’m elated, nearly giddy.

He didn’t say anything when I dragged him through the doors. Didn’t question me when I told the clerk we’d like to set up a joint account. Gave me a long look when he was handed the forms, but said nothing, still, and put pen to paper.

Now we walk side by side, through the lobby, out the doors. He turns to me on the pavement, takes my hand, links our fingers. “I need to contribute,” Blue eyes determined. “I won’t be a burden,” Oh, John. As if you ever could be.

“ _ Partners _ , John,” Is all I say. He smiles, but says nothing.

✹

“Mind if Harry comes to the flat for dinner?” We’ve headed to Tesco to do the shopping that we’d been putting off. While we’re roaming the aisles, she texts him.

“Not at all. It’ll be good to see her again,”

He looks at me disbelievingly. “She seems a bit not good. Day drinking, maybe.” These things do happen. We may as well try to be a support system for her.

“Well then, we’d better feed the girl.”

✹

“Do you ever respond?” John has been working on a blog post about our new chapter of life. Editing and re-editing. Trying to get the words just right.

“To?” I’m sitting on the couch, poking around in my emails, trying in vain to find us a case that isn’t painfully tedious. His question is out of the blue and a bit cryptic.

“Her texts,” Oh. This again?

“Nope,” A pop of the ‘p’. Levity. Brevity.

“Never?” He really wants to talk about this. I glance up at him now, perched in his chair. He’s feigning nonchalance, scrolling nervously through his laptop. Oh.

“John,” He looks up, listening intently. “Even then, it was you. But it was futile. I pushed it back,” He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “She saw that, obviously. And did what she does. And I--liked her--she’s intelligent, and interesting. But it was--” I search for the words. “It was never  _ this _ ,” He’ll understand. “And no, I don’t respond. But it is nice to know that she’s still out in the world causing mayhem,” I add.

He smiles. “All right,” And goes back to his editing.

✹

Harry is  _ not  _ sober. She trips through our door at half six, kicking off her Chelsea boots and hanging her coat up over John’s. He walks in just behind her, having gone down to let her in, and the look on his face is one of severe disappointment.

“ _ Sherlock, _ ” She takes a few steps, a bit unsteady. “ _ Hello _ ,” Nearly launches herself at me. Well, here we go.

I give her a quick hug and lead her to the couch. John follows with a mug of coffee--he’d prepared for this and made some earlier. Now we sit on either side of her, and I haven’t a clue how to proceed.

“What’s this, then, Harry? Hm? Tell us what’s happened.” John is trying to sound calm and concerned, but there’s a definite edge to his voice. I can only imagine how many times he’s found himself in this very scenario. I’ve lost track of how many times my brother has done this for me.

“Fired,” She says bluntly. The theater, then. Her new job. “For no bloody reason. Said they’d overstaffed and I was last on.”

“So you went out and drank a vat of vodka?” John sighs. “Drink the coffee, Harry.” She does.

“I’m an idiot,” Another sip. “Had been three weeks sober.” At this, John’s eyes soften a bit. She’s been trying. He lightly hugs her shoulders and she immediately sets down her mug and returns the embrace fiercely. It must be difficult for her, having no real support. From what John has told me, all of her friends are fellow alcoholics. No other family--only John. We’ll have to make it a point to spend more time with her.

Once we’ve eaten and plied her with a second mug of coffee, Harry is considerably more alert. She apologizes for her graceless entrance, and asks what we’ve been up to. We tell her of our trip to Penarth, of my overbearing mother and her not-so-subtle warnings. We tell her we’re planning on hosting Christmas here at Baker Street and that we expect her to be in attendance.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Her eyes light up a bit. “Sounds lovely, actually.”

We end up building a fire and spending hours sitting cross-legged on the floor around the coffee table--playing cards, chatting, laughing, drinking tea. Harry and John are nearly of one shared mind when they’ve been in one another’s presence for awhile. They finish each other’s sentences on more than one occasion and both burst into laughter each time. I’m rather enjoying the experience.

It’s late when Harry lets out a great yawn, and we insist she stay in the upstairs bedroom. She agrees without argument and heads upstairs to sleep. John putters around in the kitchen, tidying, as I clear up our playing cards and empty cups of tea.

Now we sit on the edge of our bed, side by side. John looks over at me, a question in his eyes.  _ Will you tell me? _ It’s enough. It’s what I’d been waiting for. I tell him.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” He breathes. “I never--I’d thought he was--immortal, maybe. Indestructible, your brother.”

“So had I,” I say. “Apparently not.” Human after all.

We toss our clothing in a heap on the floor, crawl under the covers, safe, warm. John takes me apart with his competent fingers. Stretches me out and sets me aglow. I unravel him slowly with the heat of my mouth. We have patterns, now. Preferences.

  
My head on his chest, his fingers in my curls. As I drift gradually into sleep, I think:  _ I could do this forever. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ∞


	27. Twenty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case in this chapter is inspired by the horrifying case of [Reyna Marroquín](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_Reyna_Marroqu%C3%ADn). I've changed nearly all of the details, but there are a few glaringly obvious similarities. If you aren't familiar with her case, you should research it. It's extremely tragic, and the world should know about her.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's still reading along!

Harry’s up before us. We hear the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen and share a grin as we listen to the sounds of her trying to make breakfast. We decide to stay put and see what comes of her attempts.. 

John rolls on top of me and kisses me thoroughly, smoothing his thumbs softly over my brows. When I slide my fingers down and grab two handfuls of his arse, he laughs “All right,” Rolls off me. “Better not.” I smirk..

We get dressed, venture out to give Harry a hand. She’s got bacon and mushrooms frying, and is whisking eggs in a bowl. “Morning, boys,” She’s beaming. “Omelets, I thought.”

In a flurry of spatulas and wooden spoons, we dance around the kitchen until our opus is complete. We dine together--the three of us. All smiles and bright eyes. A different day, a fresh start, a new beginning.

My thoughts drift briefly to Mycroft. I wonder if we could have this with him. John and Harry have had years of conflict, and yet here we all are--a little family of misfits. 

The problem with my brother and I is that we don’t know what to say to one another. Our shared interests begin and end with snarky banter and a propensity for deduction. Outside of that, we only ever seem to find hostility and decades of pain. But we could try.

✹

Harry leaves after breakfast (_ Better start the job hunt—thanks for everything, boys _). She promises John she’ll call her sponsor and attend a meeting today. He’s not particularly hopeful, but I can see that he wants to be.

We’ve settled in on the couch, side by side, laptops on our knees. Determined to find a case that’s at least a five. As I’m scanning the blog, scowling at the amount of time-wasting idiots, (_ disappearing biscuits, really? _) my phone vibrates.

_ hey it’s harry _

_ i just want to say thank you for letting me stay_

_ i’m so happy john has you _

_ lucky boy _

She’d asked for my number (_ Just in case _) as she was leaving. I’m quite touched by this series of texts, despite a rather shocking absence of both capitalization and punctuation.

_ Come stay any time, Harry. SH _

_ And it’s we who are lucky to have John. SH _

✹

_ Dear Mr. Holmes, _

_ I’m writing to you in hopes that you can help us solve a little mystery. _

_ My husband and I have recently bought a house in East Sussex, and during construction on our kitchen, we discovered a letter hidden in the wall. The author states that he had buried the body of a woman in the cellar in 1974. I say ‘he’ because of the handwriting, but really it’s a guess. The letter is unsigned and rather cryptic. _

_ The strangest thing, you see, is that there is no cellar in our home. We’ve searched high and low for a trap door or a hidden passage, but haven’t found a thing. _

_ The letter says little else, and we’d like to find out if it’s only a hoax. Our daughter has claimed to hear odd noises in the night, and I’m sure you can imagine how my mind has begun to play tricks. _

_ If you’d be willing to come out and set our minds at ease, we’d be happy to pay you fairly for your time. _

_ Thank you, _

_ Stella Eames _

“Sussex?” John is reading over my shoulder. 

“Indeed,” It’s a two hour train ride to the Berwick Station, but could be worth the trip. “While this woman is clearly an idiot if she thinks she’s hearing ghosts, I must admit I am intrigued,” Letters in the wall? Bodies in the cellar? This is at least a six. “Shall we take a trip?”

“I’ll get the tickets,” He grins.

✹

We arrive at Berwick Station around two. We’ve got nothing on this week, so we decide to make it a bit of a holiday. John has booked us for two nights at The Gashlycrumb Inn, a converted victorian mansion just three kilometres from the Eames residence.

When our cab rolls up to the kerb out front, I must admit it’s a sight to behold. Quite gothic--a massive brick structure at the top of a long, broad set of steps--all towers and turrets and steeply sloped gables. Like the setting of a horror film. Well done, John.

Our room is_ blue. _Modern, unlike the exterior of the house. A large bed centred against the east wall. Telly, desk, kitchenette--and nearly every single object within it is some shade of blue. The eccentric woman who showed us to our lodgings informed us that each room is themed with a different color. Grateful that we didn’t end up in the pink room, we stash our bags on the desk and call Stella Eames.

Stella flings open the door the instant I knock. “Oh, thank you for coming,” She’s a petite woman in her thirties, strawberry blonde waves curling past her shoulders. Her daughter lurks behind her, an exact match in miniature. “This is Minnie,” Aptly named.

We meet the husband--Charles--when Stella leads us to the kitchen--Minnie trailing in her wake. “This is where we found it,” He points to a space beside a single wooden beam. He’s a bit older, early forties, with a wisp of light brown hair. “There was a wall here. We tore it down to open the place up,” He hands me the folded piece of paper he’s been clutching. “Better feng shui, you know.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Indeed,” Unfold the letter. It’s written on a page torn from a yellow legal pad, and the handwriting is a miniscule messy scrawl. Stella was correct to guess that a man wrote this--and though it isn’t dated, I’d estimate the age-worn paper is from the mid-eighties. And I’m rarely wrong.

The note is short. And absurd:

_ To whom it may concern, _

_ In the year of 1974, I buried her here. She is no more. _

_ PS- The cellar holds my secret. _

Ridiculous.

John reads the diminutive memo and raises his eyebrows. “Mind if we have a look around?” He asks, turning to the Eames family. 

“Have at it,” Says Charles. And away we go. 

The house is a standard cottage, painted red. Two bedrooms, one loo, outdated kitchen. And a small living room that’s now part of the open floor plan they’ve achieved by knocking out a wall. 

No cellar door to speak of. At least not one visible to idiots. I stride through each room, John at my heels, scanning corners and floorboards for a tell. Peeking in closets, opening cupboards. Nothing looks amiss, so we head back outside. Circle the house, once, twice. The one-car garage. Nothing.

We head back inside. I pace through each room again, looking for inconsistencies. Something that doesn’t _ quite _ belong. Painted walls, hardwood floors--standard, _ normal _—nothing—except—

_ Oh. _Carpet. Minnie’s room alone is covered in horrendous, fusty beige wall-to-wall carpeting. “Can’t afford to replace it quite yet,” Stella chimes from the doorway as I bend down to inspect the polyester eyesore.

I run my fingers along the edge, in the only corner devoid of toys and furniture. Then abruptly yank it up, pulling it free of the tack strips that hold it to the hardwood below. “Oi!” Warns John, as I pull the carpeting back, back. Then the padding--old, worn. The metre of hardwood revealed is nearly flawless, nicely finished, not a scratch to speak of. Why cover it up unless you’ve something to hide?

We shuffle furniture out of the way, rolling the carpet up as we gradually reveal the original floor. When we’ve reached the edge of the room and have yet to uncover a trap door, I stand, hands on hips, and scan my eyes across the wood. Where did I go wrong? I was certain that this is the answer. I pace the room, stopping to shift my weight on different areas of the floor. Testing. Listening. Solid. Until--

_ Ah. _As I move closer to the closet, the floor creaks--ever so slightly--beneath my weight. I slowly open the door to reveal--more carpet. Bingo.

I’m on my hands and knees in a second, scrabbling to get my fingers under the edge. I rip it up in one swift motion, and there it is: a small square door--a mere two feet in diameter--built right into the hardwood floor.

“Bloody brilliant,” Oh, John. I’ll never tire of your praises. I look over my shoulder and we share a grin.

The Eames family is shifting uneasily behind us. “Thought it was a hoax,” Charles mumbles, sounding wary.

“Still may be,” I pull a small lever from my inner coat pocket and wedge it into the thin crack between trap door and floor. Cobwebs cling to the underside as I pry the wood up and flip it back on its hinges. John hands me a torch and places a hand on my shoulder as we peer down into the cellar below.

No steps, no ladder. It’s a silo basement, only three metres in diameter, maybe two metres deep. Red bricks form the circular room--empty, but for a great deal of dust--and the large steel drum sitting right in the centre. 

I look back at John. His expression is grim. “Shit,” He says. Shit, indeed. I leap down into the small round room—ignoring John’s protests—to investigate the drum. Forty-four-gallon, by the looks of it. The type used to store chemicals or hazardous waste. Completely immovable and firmly welded shut.

“Shall we call the police then?” It’s Minnie who asks. She’s hovering next to John, watching the proceedings with interest.

“Yes,” I say, clambering up onto the drum, and grasping John’s hands as he pulls me back up. “Yes, I think we’d better.”

✹

By the time the local police sort out all of their _ official procedure, _ it’s growing dark and we’re tired of waiting. They let us stay only because we got here first--not that we wouldn’t have found a way back in, anyway. They’ve (finally) called in a metal worker to cut open the drum. He immediately ruled out using a blow torch, lest the drum be filled with kerosene. No need to kill us all. Instead, he uses a tool to carefully--and _ slowly _\--cut around the lid, one small segment at a time. Now we watch from above, waiting with bated breath.

The drum contains the following:

✕ Seven (7) blouses, women’s sizes small-medium

✕ Two (2) pairs trousers, women’s size 10

✕ Two (2) skirts, women’s size 10

✕ Eight (8) asstd. women’s undergarments

✕ Three (3) pairs shoes, women’s size 5

✕ One (1) leatherbound journal

✕ One (1) charm bracelet, stamped with initials ‘LEJ’

(All of this is piled on top of)

✕ The nude, mummified remains of an African American female, age 22-28

All of the clothing is 1970’s style, and the journal contains a wealth of information. Her name was Linda Elizabeth Jones, and the address she’s written in neat, looping script on the first page is the very same house that we now stand in.

The pages are filled with accounts of her husband’s abuse. Frequent physical and sexual assault. Emotionally manipulative. Day after day, gradually tearing her down. We read on in horror, John quietly muttering “Oh my God,” every now and then.

On page sixteen, I’ve seen enough. Our next move is clear. 

We need to find Kenneth Jones.

✹

I sit hunched over my laptop in our excessively blue room, eyeing the paper cup of coffee on the desk to my right. It’s gone cold. Drink it anyway? Yes, I think so.

Kenneth Jones has proven to be a difficult man to find. He owned that house until 1987. Sold when he lost his job at the local industrial chemical plant. Obvious. The drum. Last known address was a rental property only a few kilometres from here, but he hasn’t lived there in nearly a decade. This is as far as the local police have gotten. I intend to go deeper.

John fell asleep three hours ago. Now it’s nearly four AM, and I’ve found almost nothing of use. A history of disorderly conduct, records of his marriage to Linda, a sparse and neglected Facebook page—and a sister, who lives in Kent. We’ll try to speak with her this morning, see what she remembers about Linda, fish for information on her brother’s current whereabouts. An hour by train—we’ll leave at first light.

✹

John is still sleeping soundly when the sun begins to rise. He looks quite young when he sleeps. Face smoothed out and free of worry. I wake him by sitting at his side, running my fingers along his temples, through his hair. He stirs when I press my lips to his forehead, then the space between his eyes. “Time to get up,” I whisper when his eyelids flicker open. “_ The game is back on _.” He smiles.

The train whisks us away to Kent, and we arrive just before nine. All we’ve got is a name (Ruth Jones), an age (sixty-two) and an address. Our cab drops us off outside a large block of flats. Relatively new construction. But simple, inexpensive. And no security to speak of. We walk right in, take the elevator to the third floor, and stride down the hall to door thirty-eight. I knock.

The woman who opens the door immediately narrows her eyes. “Yes?” She demands, face tired, worn. And thoroughly suspicious.

“Ms. Jones,” I begin. “We’d like to speak with you about your brother Kenneth.” I try for authoritative. A tone that doesn’t allow for questioning.

It doesn’t work. “What about Kenneth?” She’s uncomfortable, defensive. Runs a hand through her short black curls.

“Please, may we come in?” John chimes in now. His charm always could cut right through my brash demeanor. He smiles warmly at her, and she thaws noticeably. “Just a few questions. It won’t take long.”

She waves us in, points us toward a soft burgundy couch. “Go on, then,” She says, sinking into an armchair. “What’s he done now?”

“Why do you ask that?” I know why she asked.

She pauses, studies me. “Who are you? Police?”

“No,” I hope this is the answer she’s looking for. “Ms. Jones—Ruth—my name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson. We’re detectives, working on a case involving your brother. We could use your help locating him.”

A long moment passes, she looks from me to John and back again. Then her brow unfurrows and she shakes her head once. “This is about Linda, isn’t it? Have they found her at last?”

✹

Ruth remembers Linda Elizabeth Murphy as a bright and welcome presence in her life. A beautiful young woman with a wide smile and impeccable taste in fashion. She and Kenneth met at a church picnic, and he was positively smitten from that day forward. Ruth watched from the sidelines as they dated, fell in love. Linda treated her as a sister—took her shopping, to the cinema. Gave her friendship, warmth—and hope. Something she'd been lacking.

Her big brother seemed almost content for the first time in his miserable life—and six months into their courtship, they married. Linda Elizabeth Jones. Soon after, they purchased the house and moved to Sussex. 

Ruth stayed with them often, watching helplessly as the love they once shared gradually faded. She started seeing the signs of violence, saw the light in Linda’s eyes begin to dim. 

When one summer day in 1974, Kenneth told Ruth that Linda had left him—(_ She’s fucked off somewhere with another bloke--don’t hold your breath, she won’t be coming back _)—she wanted to believe it. But she didn’t.

For forty years, she’s wondered and waited. Hoped for a phone call (_ It’s Linda! I miss you! _) but expected a body and a prison sentence.

“When is the last time you heard from him, Ruth?” She’s devastated. Mournful. Tears silently fall.

“A year ago,” She whispers. “He’d moved back to town.”

“Have you got an address?” She nods, stands. Fishes around in the top drawer of a bureau and pulls out a small purple address book.

“If you find him,” She says quietly as she neatly copies it down. Rips the page out, hands it over. “Tell him he can go straight to hell.”

✹

Ruth has given us a phone number as well. I give it a call, false persona in place--prepared to tell him he’s won a local raffle. Stop by with his prize: an all expenses paid trip to prison. But there’s no answer. Default voicemail greeting--no information to be gained. I hang up. We’ll just have to drop in unannounced.

We pull up outside a small mechanic’s shop. A rundown brick building, painted white. To the left, a chain link fence, and behind it a gravel lot containing dozens of rusting, inoperable vehicles. 

There are two men out front, working on some sort of classic sports car. They eye us guardedly as we approach. “Can we help you lads?” The shorter of the two asks, wiping the grease off of his hands with a white rag. “You look lost.”

“We’ve been told this is where to find Kenneth Jones.”

“And what do you want with Jones?” Brow furrowed.

“We have business to discuss with him,” Grasping at straws, here. He further narrows his eyes, bites at the inside of his cheek.

After a long, contemplative pause, he jerks his head back toward the building. “Lives upstairs. Not in at the moment. Come back later.”

We thank them and head back toward the idling cab. No use hanging around, we’ll return after dark and stake the place out. They’ll warn him we’ve stopped by, if they haven’t already. Can hardly knock on his door now.

✹

At John’s insistence, we stop at a diner for lunch. I don’t eat, can’t stomach it now. Knee bouncing, knuckles rapping against the laminate tabletop. A temporary dead end, a momentary lull. Nothing to do but wait. Hateful.

John grins at me over his BLT. “Must be something we can do in the meantime,” There he goes again. Reading me like a book. “Find out where he works somehow? Or--I don’t know--” He trails off. Pops a chip in his mouth. I’ve already tried to find out who employs him. He’s unfortunately quite adept at flying under the radar--a skill that generally pairs well with a guilty conscience. Ruth didn’t have any knowledge of how he spends his days. She wasn’t interested in chatting when he showed up at her flat last December. Sent him away, shocked to have heard from him at all. He had slipped a note under her door with his phone number and address (_ If you change your mind _). She didn’t.

I consider informing the local police that we’ve found a current address. We aren’t armed, and if we find Jones, we’ll be taking a considerable risk by confronting him. I dismiss the idea quickly, however--he’ll surely run. They’ll come rolling in, sirens blaring. He’ll be warned by his mates and we’ll lose the man for good. We have one chance to catch the idiot before he skips town, and we’re going to take it. We’ll just have to keep our guard up.

✹

John and I sit perched shoulder to shoulder in between two skips across the street from the mechanic’s shop. All is quiet in the flat upstairs. We’ve been here for nearly an hour now, and no one has come or gone. No lights on, no movement--nobody’s home.

“Think he’s left already?” John asks, shivering slightly in the brisk early evening air.

“No,” I don’t. If his mates warned him that two men showed up asking questions, he’ll be waiting for the advantage of darkness to return to the flat and pack his bags. “He’ll show up soon.” I’m sure of it. What will happen then, I don’t know.

Another hour passes in silence before a car stops, a block away to our right. Headlights flicker off. A figure emerges--a tall man, with broad shoulders. We watch silently as he slinks through the shadows and straight to the shop. The distant sound of jangling keys. He disappears behind a door on the side of the building.

John and I share a weighty glance as a dim light appears in the upstairs window. It’s him.

I dial the police now that we know he’s home. They can go right ahead and corner him in his flat. Our days of charging unarmed into rooms containing known murderers are behind us. It isn’t worth the risk now that we’ve got so much to lose.

“Shit!” John elbows me as I’m hanging up the phone. I glance up in time to see Jones’ shadow rounding the corner behind the building. Without thinking twice, I jump up and start running.

John is right behind me--of course he is--as our feet carry us across the street and through the gravel that surrounds the shop. We skid to a halt, gravel crunching, once we’ve reached the corner where Jones disappeared. Sirens in the distance now, clearly headed this way. “There,” I whisper, nodding toward the chainlink graveyard of vehicles. He’s getting into a white sedan, parked at the edge of the lot near a gate. “He’s going to run.”

We’re in motion again, ducking behind the husks of old cars, edging ever closer, prepared to intervene if it comes to that. But something feels--off. Jones isn’t moving.

“_ He’s armed _,” John whispers urgently as we crouch behind a hollowed out minivan, three metres away. Indeed, he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, both palms on the wheel, a shiny silver pistol clutched in his right hand. Hasn’t started the vehicle. Has made no move to open the gate. “What--”

The blast of the gun vibrates through my body--deep, deep, rattling my bones. I fall back, barely catching myself and desperately pulling John down with me. “John!” My hands scrabble at his coat. Was he hit? How did Jones even know we were there? What have I missed?

  
“It’s okay--Sherlock--stop, it’s all right,” He’s got his hands on my biceps, trying to hold me down. “ _ Stop _ , Sherlock--” I realize I’m frantic. Eyes wild, scanning John’s body for signs of harm--arms flailing against his grip, panic rising, heart clenching. I can barely breathe. “Shit, he’s shot himself--Sherlock, we’re fine,” His hands on my face, forcing me to look him in the eye. “Listen, we’re _ fine _. God, he’s gone and blown his bloody head off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trap door in the closet and silo basement below are based on an old house I lived in when I was 20 that had that exact set up. It was creepy as hell. No bodies, though.
> 
> The Gashlycrumb Inn is named for [The Gashlycrumb Tinies](https://www.brainpickings.org/2011/01/19/edward-gorey-the-gashlycrumb-tinies/), of course.


	28. Twenty Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's try this again! If you read the last version of this chapter, congratulations! You've feasted your eyes on a truly tortured text. I wrote it fast, hated it, picked it apart and tried to force it to flow. If I were a real writer, I'd have known that it _doesn't work like that._
> 
>   
Lessons learned, words deleted. Here's how it was always meant to be.
> 
> Without further ado...

As it turns out, Ruth rang her big brother earlier this evening—just about an hour into our stakeout by the skips. After a day of stewing in her own rage over Linda’s murder, she went ahead and picked up the phone. Told him exactly what she thinks of him—told him, as she’d wanted to, to go straight to hell—and gave him all the data he needed to know, for certain, that he’d finally been found out.

After that damning phone call, he had headed straight for his flat—not to pack a bag, but to retrieve his trusty handgun. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Very recent history, in fact. I now lean against a table at the station, ridiculous orange shock blanket over my shoulders and the reassuring grip of John’s hand over that. We’ve just received what was ultimately a half lecture, half commendation from the detective inspector, and now all I want is to get the hell out of here.

We walk side by side through the lobby, my hand protectively placed on the small of John’s back, and he glances at me as we stride toward the doors. Concern lurks deep, in the pools of his eyes. It hides behind affection, but it’s there nevertheless. He had seen the root of my panic earlier, kneeling on the ground surrounded by the skeletons of cars. Saw right through the gasping breaths—the wild eyes and flailing limbs—to the one fear that threatened to choke me: 

For a moment, I’d thought I had lost him.

✹

After a quiet hour on a train back to Sussex, we’re now sitting silently in the back of a cab. My forehead pressed against the cool window—I feel remote—detached and isolated. None of the post-case elation that usually courses through me. My mind is hung up on the fact that this path I’ve chosen could one day cost me John.

It’s certainly not the first time I’ve put him in harm’s way. It’s what we do, after all—and really, nothing even happened today. But I’m all too aware, these days, of how quickly things can take a turn for the worse. And I’m not sure I trust myself to see it coming anymore. Not that I ever really could.

John has always been the one to protect us. His lightning reflexes and soldier’s instincts have served us well. And while he’s still strong and capable, he’s out of practice and unarmed—and I’m no longer able to prevent sentiment and emotion from clouding my mind. Things have changed. Have they changed too much to keep doing this? I don’t know. I hope not.

The pads of John’s fingers lightly nudge my hand where it rests on the seat between us. _ Talk to me, let me in _. I can’t, John. I don’t want to look at him—don’t want to see the concern in his eyes. I take his hand but stay where I am. I can distantly hear him speaking with the driver, but the words sound foggy, faded.

The cab stops outside a small restaurant and John disappears inside. He emerges a few minutes later with three steaming boxes of Thai. All my favourites. He must’ve ordered on his phone at some point—thoughtful, as ever. I haven’t eaten in days.

We trudge up the stairs to our blue room—John’s blue eyes on me each step of the way. Don’t worry, John. The mood will pass. Just a bit of melancholy to shake things up. Just a bit of blue_. _

When the door clicks shut behind us, John sets the boxes on the desk, turns to me. He looks as though he’s about to speak, but changes his mind. Strides forward, wraps his arms around my waist, presses his cheek against my chest. My hands immediately come up to rest on his back. Pull him in, breathe him in, let him in at last.

We stand like that, by the door of our room. Placid, calm, in this sea of blue. Small waves of worry ripple out around us and fade to nothing. I try to remind myself that I don’t have to be maudlin, don’t need to dwell on what might have gone wrong. We’ll talk about it later, but for now we’ve found some calm.

✹

Perched atop the blue wooden desk, we eat. Boxes spread out between us, cross-legged and ravenous. John grins at me over a spoonful of red curry. Things feel lighter, now—the gravity of a moment ago evaporated into the ether. How does he do that? How do you know just what I need, John? How do you so easily free me from the shackles of my mind? I return the smile.

John has found sparkling wine in the minibar. We forgo glasses and sip the small green bottles. We’ve moved to the blue bed, sitting face to face, knees brushing. Laughing, chatting, sipping our wine. “You were brilliant, you know,” He’s brought the conversation back around to the case. “I hadn’t quite realized how much I’d missed watching you work.”

Hearing him voice his love of the work never fails to make my heart go tender, to melt right through the gaps in my ribcage. I can’t help but think of a time before John, when it was all I had to keep me moving forward. A time when I was alone—despised by those around me—used for my mind and then turned away from once the puzzle was solved. To have found a man who not only appreciates what I do, but also who am—who is a valuable contribution to the work, and even more so to every other facet of my life—someone I can trust with my heart, trust with everything—”John.”

“Yeah?” He’s been watching me. Observing my spiraling thoughts, my furrowed brow, as I contemplate my next words.

I hesitate, look up at him. “I think it’s time I tell you what happened while I was away.”

✹

John peers silently back at me, his face a picture of unconditional acceptance. He scoots back against the headboard, reaches for my wrist and guides me to lie with my head in his lap, fingers carding gently through my hair. He looks down at my hesitant face, brushes a curl aside. _ Tell me. _ His eyes are warm, open. _ I’m listening. _

Where to begin? Does he need to know everything? Do I tell him I’ve killed men—destroyed lives—to preserve his? I’ve spent most of our time together these last few weeks trying to keep thoughts of the past two years out of my head entirely. Now I feel wholly unprepared for this conversation. “John, I’m—” I’m what? Ashamed? Is that what I need him to know? I’ve been putting this off for fear of the repercussions. He will see me in a different light—it will haunt him. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done.”

He keeps his eyes locked on mine, fingers still pulling lightly through my curls. “Sherlock,” Traces a cheekbone, my jawline. Smoothes a thumb softly over my lips. “There’s nothing you could have done—_ nothing _ you could say that will change anything between us,” He leans down to press his lips to my forehead, whispers, “You can tell me anything. You have me completely, and nothing will change that.”

God, I love him, the idiot. He knew I needed to hear that. I cup my hand around his nape, hold him close. Pour all of my gratitude and staggering affection into a vehement kiss. When we break apart at last, he’s smiling. Resumes his gentle brushing through my curls. I begin at the end.

“After I jumped—I flew straight to Tibet. Mycroft had everything in place. A new identity, a new appearance. There was a group of Moriarty’s—associates—there, that he’d decided would be the first to go,” A human trafficking ring. Time was of the essence.

I tell him of New Delhi, of Hamburg, of Amsterdam. Of infiltrating crime syndicates, systematically destroying organizations, imprisoning men who had made the unfortunate mistake of trusting James Moriarty. I tell him of my hands wrapped around a man’s throat—of the moment that man stopped breathing—and of the many others that followed. Mrs. Hudson’s would-be assassin. Then Lestrade’s. Other men, too—terrible men—who would only be stopped by death.

I don’t tell him that with every life I took, I felt less human, myself. Instead I tell him of how I finally tracked down Sebastian Moran—the man who was to kill him if I hadn’t jumped—in Brussels. He only nods solemnly, eyes shining, when I tell him that I shot Moran in the head.

I tell him, too, of night after night spent alone and in fear. Of lying awake holding conversations with him in my head, reminding myself why I’m doing this. Of letting the days go by, existing half in my mind—straddling reality, wandering lost through a thick, horrible haze. Eliminating all obstacles and continuing on, only so that I’d be able to return to him one day.

Tears stream down John’s cheeks and land on my own. He doesn’t like to hear of my being alone, afraid. I fear that his anger may resurface, being forced to recall the fact that I didn’t bring him with me. That he was here, helpless, thinking me dead. I know he understands now, why it had to happen—but I also can plainly see how much this hurts him. It’s breaking his heart.

“John,” His eyes are closed. I brush the tears from his cheek, push his hair back from his forehead. “The one charm of the past, is that it is the past.” He opens his eyes. Then narrows them.

“Are you quoting Oscar bloody Wilde at me?” Am I? Maybe I am. A watery smile slowly spreads across his face, his hand moves to cover mine where it rests on his cheek. “Really, Sherlock—Dorian Gray, at a time like this?” Who? He laughs. “Idiot,” Wipes his other cheek. “I love you. Go on, then.”

I take a deep breath. “After Moran, I—” This is the part he really needs to hear. The part I’m dreading the most. “I was sent to Serbia. There is an—organization—there. A group of men that MI6 has had their eye on for quite some time. I was sent to gather information on these men, and I—after just a few days, I—was captured,” He’s listening intently, dread written all over his face. I don’t want him to hear this. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have tonight. “John—”

“Tell me,” He holds my head in his hands, fingers lightly massaging my scalp. “I need to know. Please, tell me,” He looks determined to get through this. I sigh.

“I was held in a bunker for four days. Interrogated—they wanted to know who I am, why I was there,” John treated the resultant wounds. He knows what else happened in that cell. The look in his eyes says he hasn’t forgotten. “I said nothing. Observed my captors—deduced their lives. Formulated a plan of escape,” I replay that final day in my mind. Mycroft sitting smugly in the doorway, showing off his newly acquired language skills and an impressive disguise. Watching my pain, doing nothing to stop it. At the time, I was furious. I know, now, that had he done anything differently, we’d likely both be dead. “One of the men was weak,” I continue. “He was angry, but not at me—his tension was written all over him. A cheating spouse. I spoke at last. Told him where to find her, and who with. He left,” Tears escape my eyes at the thought of what came next. “My brother was there,” This comes out as a sob. Another thing he’s done for me that I had written off, scoffed at. John brushes my hair back, tears of his own falling silently once more. “He’d put himself in the centre of it all, to get me out. Waited for the right moment. We escaped together,” The dam breaks, I’m sobbing now. John pulls me up into his arms.

He holds me while I fall apart. I let myself be held. The front of his shirt soaked through with my tears, my arms wrapped so tightly around him that I wonder if he can breathe. He just cradles my body, presses his mouth to my head, says nothing. And through all of my overwhelming regret and pain, shines a bright beam of relief.

✹

I rise from a light doze some time later. We haven’t moved from our embrace. John is awake, one palm running slowly up and down my spine, the other still holding my body to his. Comforting. I glance up at him from where my head rests on his chest; his face is contemplative, his mind far away. When our eyes meet, he presses his lips to my forehead. “Hi,” He breathes. I tighten my arms around his waist.

Eventually I stretch a bit, roll off of him to lie on my side. He slides down to face me. We silently stare at one another. Warm blue eyes, locked on mine.

I slip my hand under his shirt, up his chest—brush across his scar, lightly circle a nipple. Slowly run my palm back down his side to his hip. I slide my fingers through a belt loop and pull him closer. Unfasten his jeans and slip my fingers down his pants. Stroke him firmly, steadily, as he hardens in my hand. He watches me closely, panting lightly. Tucks an errant curl gently behind my ear.

He kisses me now, with passion, intent. We gradually shed our layers until I lie flush against his sweat-slicked skin. Our mouths tell each other stories of hunger, of lust. Tongues speak of tenderness, of truth and of trust. 

He unravels me with slippery fingers, a now familiar kind of ecstasy—hovering above me as I writhe beneath his touch. Back arching, chest heaving, a low moan escaping my lips—I tug him down to face me, hitch a leg over his hip and pull him in. When I stroke him slowly with slick fingers, guide him down, down—his eyes go wide. _ Are you sure? _ They ask. Blue. Questioning. I wrap my hands around his hips and lightly tug.

He gives me one more long look, searching, reassuring. Presses his mouth to my throat, slides a hand up to grip my shoulder, and pushes—slowly, _ slowly _—into my body. My eyes close, my lips part. I gasp as my hands scrabble frantically across his back. I pull him tightly against me, his face pressed into my neck—and we lie there, fused together, hearts beating violently within our heaving chests.

“_ John _,” I gasp quietly. It’s barely a sound. Emotion flooding through me, overflowing, spilling out. He squeezes me tightly, keeping still as I adjust. When I bare down against him, he gasps, pulls back slightly and begins a long, slow thrust. All of my senses amplified, I feel every brush of our bodies, every flutter of his eyelashes against my neck. With every careful roll of his hips, I feel the affection, the relief, the gratitude that we have for one another. A physical representation of our inexplicable love. Eyes closed, I let the warmth wash over me as he drives into me, makes love to me, gradually turns me inside out. Buried deep inside me, he begins to pick up speed, and I breathe out a long, drawn-out shout.

The feel of him—solid, _ hot _ —boring desperately into my body, nearly sends me over the edge. My cock glides between us as he feverishly snaps his hips—we both cry out, now, with every frenzied thrust—every blazing brush of our flesh. When he calls out my name, a burst of molten heat courses through me—pressure building, pleasure coiling—expanding like magma, rising up to break free. Body shaking, quaking—shattering, breaking—back arching violently and a pained, strangled shout as I erupt between us and begin to melt. John _ gasps _—thrusts once, twice more—goes still and lets go. Spilling deep within me, hips twitching—filling me, as he shakes and shakes and quietly sobs, wrapped up tight in my arms. 

My mind is reeling, body buzzing, as I try to sort through all that I feel. Overwhelmed and overflowing. Deeply in love with this perfect man. My perfect match. I let my mind spin out, committing each moment to memory, never to be forgotten—as I sink slowly into a haze of blissful contentment.

✹

  
“John,” I whisper into the silver-gold halo of hair my cheek rests against. He hasn’t moved from the circle of my arms. His breaths are coming slower now, softening shaft still buried inside me, and his wet cheek still pressed against my neck. He says nothing, but slides a hand up my back to squeeze my nape lightly in response. _ All right. _Ignoring the emotion that has wrapped itself around each of my organs, squeezing them until they threaten to burst, I tighten my arms around John’s waist and drift slowly, silently, into sleep.


	29. Twenty Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Sort of. There will be an epilogue of sorts (Christmas!) posted sometime this week.

I wake gradually to the sensation of fingertips tracing the lines of my collarbone. A gentle touch, a soft, comforting pressure. Morning light shines through my closed eyelids. The scents of sex, of sweat, of _ John _, infiltrate my nose. Lips on my temple, now. “Good morning,” A whisper. I turn toward his voice and pull the duvet over our heads. He laughs. Tucks himself under my arm and nestles against my chest—hand on my heart, lips wet against my neck. He mouths the sensitive skin there, glides his tongue across my tingling flesh. I shiver, snake my arm around, down and grab a handful of his arse—pull our bodies flush together and smile when he gasps.

We move together—familiar friction—under blue linen. We come together—with quiet moans, muffled by each other’s skin. We hold one another—comfortable, content. And when at last I pull back to look at him, his cheeks are wet with silent tears, but he’s beaming back at me. Oh, John.

I run my knuckles over his brow. Slide the pads of my fingers over the creased corners of his smiling eyes. Wipe the tears from his cheeks with a brush of my thumb.

“I’ve never had this,” He whispers, his fingers tracing the curves of my ribcage. “It’s never been like this for me, not even close.”

A bud of warmth blooms in my chest. I smile back at his expressive face and wish that I could find the words. Every time we’re together, I wonder how it’s possible for us to have this. To have so _ much _. 

Last night was everything I could have ever wanted it to be. The panic-fueled pressure I had built up around the act had vanished, swiftly replaced by absolute trust and profound desire. It was perfect. It always is. “I love you,” I breathe.

He kisses me—deeply, fiercely—then abruptly flings the duvet off of our bodies and drags me out of bed.

The shower feels incredible. We stand together under the hot cascade, letting it wash away all lingering remnants of our lust. Muscles melt under heat and John’s hands. Our mouths meet, fingers firmly roam, as we wordlessly bask in each other’s proximity.

Dressed, packed, ready to go, we check out of the inn and head to a nearby café. We sit together in a comfortable quiet, sipping our coffees and eating our scones. John threads our fingers together as we stride out the front door, and we walk hand in hand to the station.

✹

Two hours on a train, ten minutes in a cab, and we’re traipsing up the stairs to 221B. Mrs. Hudson pokes her head out to ask us about our trip, and we respond in exasperated fondness as we continue to inch our way upstairs. John puts the kettle on, I build a fire. _ Home _. Same as it ever was.

We’ve settled into our chairs, John occasionally smiling at me over his laptop. He’s editing his blog entry again—nearly ready to click _ post _ , to send it out into the world. I watch him tapping away, slowly perfecting his words, and think of our three weeks together (Only three weeks? Already three weeks?) and the profound happiness we’ve found in each other. I don’t want to lose it. _ Cannot _ lose it. My thoughts drift to danger, as they tend to do—to the sharp blasts of gunshots, rattling through my bones. To panic, to injuries, to close calls— _ could be dangerous. _ Now that we have so much, is it worth it anymore?

“John,” He glances up at the sound of his name. “Do you think—are we—” I trail off. What am I trying to ask him? What do I need to say? He raises an eyebrow.

“What is it?” There’s that concern again. A new fixture on his face.

“Are we being foolish, taking cases again? Are we risking too much?” There. It’s almost what I really want to say. He stares back at me, then slightly furrows his brow.

“Where’s this coming from, Sherlock?” He closes his laptop, sets it aside. Leans forward in his chair. “I know that yesterday—everything that happened with Jones, being so close when he—it was—a lot. But we were careful. And we were never in any real danger—”

“It’s not just that,” It is mostly that, though. “It’s—I—” I sigh. I’ll just say it. “I can’t lose you now, John. If I lose you now that we’re—_ this _—it will kill me.” I wouldn’t last a week.

He gives me a long look, then sighs, drops his head. “Sherlock,” Looks back up at me. “You’re not going to lose me. And are things really any different than they were before?” His eyes are fierce, willing me to listen. I hear you, John. “I _ did _ lose you. And it nearly did kill me,” Ah. Right. “Just because what we have has changed—grown—doesn’t mean it wasn’t always there,” He isn’t wrong. But I never doubted the work, before. “And I don’t think that’s really the reason you’re questioning things.”

“John—” I trail off again. This is useless. I shake my head.

He stands up, walks over and climbs right into my lap, straddling my thighs. Wraps his arms around my neck, presses his lips to my cheek, then speaks softly into my ear. “Listen to me. You’ve spent two years alone in Hell. Now you’re home and safe and very, very loved. You need to give yourself time to acclimatize. If jumping back into cases is triggering, then we won’t take any until things are more settled. If you really decide that it’s not worth the risk, then that’s fine too. We’ll take safer cases, or find something else,” I let my head drop to his shoulder. I can’t imagine us doing anything else. He runs his fingers through the curls at the nape of my neck. “Everything will feel beyond your control for a while. Some things _ are _beyond your control,” His palm smoothes firmly across my upper back. Back, forth. “But you’ll learn to be okay with that—it will just take time to feel safe again.”

I wrap my arms around his waist. Run the tip of my nose along his ear. You’re right, John, about everything. It’s the unknown. The lack of control. “I can’t trust my own thoughts anymore,” I breathe. This is the root of it. Unwarranted panic. Unrelenting cynicism. Be it PTSD or something else, I no longer trust my own mind.

“Come to me, then—when you’re doubting yourself. I’ll remind you,” He kisses my temple, my cheek. Leans back, blue eyes locking intently on mine. “Any time you forget, I’ll remind you that we’re all right.”

✹

Arm in arm, we stroll through our neighbourhood. The sun is just beginning to set, and there’s a brisk November chill settling over London. We’re continuing our endeavor to relearn our beloved city. Taking a step toward getting back to the way that we were, when it comes to the work. Strong, sure. An unstoppable team. Filling in the gaps in my internal map. Finding some peace of mind. We’ve a long way to go, but for now, we’ll begin with Baker Street.

After speaking with John about my fears, I feel sure that they can be conquered, with time. He’s right that nothing has really changed—I just have new demons looming, projecting an unfortunate past onto a promising future. I know now that I don’t want to hide away, to find something else, to play it safe. It isn’t who we are. It isn’t what we do. For now, we’ll take things slowly. We’ll prepare and acclimatize to our new reality. And eventually, gradually, we’ll get back to what we know.

My eyes scan the streets, the buildings, the sky—bricks, windows, stairways, rooftops—roaming over our surroundings as I follow John’s lead. It’s only when he slides his hand down to weave our fingers together and tugs me across the street toward a tall wall of hedges, that I realize he’s led us to Regent’s Park.

Neither of us has been back here in twenty days. John used to walk these paths every afternoon, staring unseeingly at gardens, throwing coins into fountains, making wishes that he never really thought could come true. Now I gaze down into the rippling water, in the very spot I stood when I first laid eyes on the back of his silver-gold head. He squeezes my hand, and when I turn to meet his eyes, I see that he’s looking toward the bench, instead.

An unassuming seat by the water—a setting for two profound moments in his life. He seems rooted in place—much like I was, all those days ago—so I take the first step for him. We slide, side by side, onto the bench and look out at the cold, empty lake. Lost in our own thoughts, we grip each other’s hands tightly and say nothing. Still and silent. This time, when I turn to look at John, his eyes are on me. _ Blue. _ And swimming in their depths, I see affection, relief, gratitude—a combination of feelings that I’ve come to know as _ love. _ I wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him to my side. His hand snakes around my back as he leans his body against mine. Warm, safe. 

After a long moment of calm, I hear a small huff of laughter to my left. I glance over in time to watch a giggle bubble up in his chest and tumble out of his mouth. I raise my eyebrows, thoroughly amused, as another burst breaks through the confines of his lips, skittering out over the open water, vibrating through my chest and settling deep into my heart. Oh, John. Finding only humour in a moment that calls for solemnity. We lock eyes, his are shining. Bright and brilliant, they reflect the setting sun. Watching him now, trying in vain to control his sudden burst of glee—I feel a wide smile creep across my own face. I have come to cherish these ridiculous moments.

We’ve found a balance, together—a way to stay grounded, anchored in reality. I hope that we will always rely on one another to find humour in the poignant, joy in the piteous. John has stopped laughing, now. Leans his head against my shoulder, our eyes turned back to the setting sun.

I pull him in tighter, press my lips to his temple. “Idiot,” I say, quietly.


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here she is. 8,500+ words of extremely indulgent, obnoxious fluff. Oh, and some smut. With a Christmas theme.

𝔒𝔫𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔥 𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯...

  


“All right,” John breathes, propped up on his forearms, head hanging between them. “Okay, go ahead,” I run my palms over his back, his sides. Curl my fingers around his hips. We’ve been preparing for this for weeks, but I’m still a bit wary.

“John—”

“Don’t you dare ask me if I’m sure. I want this,” He pushes his arse back into me, a clear demonstration that he indeed does want it. This motion strokes my erection where it stands against my stomach, and I let slip a low moan. He’s surprised me, yet again. John hasn’t been quite as keen on prostate stimulation as I have—it’s generally a bit overwhelming for him. Not entirely sure why we’re doing this at all, but he’s insisted that he wants it. I look up to see that he’s turned back to glare at me. I must have hesitated a moment too long. “Sherlock,” He sighs. _ “Fuck me.” _

_ God, _ John. A flare of heat sparks wildly in my gut. I’m already hard as a bloody rod from watching him squirm and moan around my fingers. I didn’t think he’d actually want to go through with this, but here we are. And if I’m being honest—I want this, too. I really, really do. I lean forward and press my lips to his spine, taste the salty sweat of him. Line us up—squeezing his hips where my hands rest. Can hardly believe this is happening. I move my pelvis forward, nudge the head of my cock against him, pausing as he inhales deeply. Then I push, gradually, into his body.

John lets out a moan that turns quickly into a stunned shout as my shaft settles deep within him. My eyes go wide before I clamp them shut—completely consumed by the feel of him. Surrounding me. Despite our preparations, he’s _ tight _—and no amount of probing with fingers could have prepared me for the way that this feels—for this particular blend of physical sensation and staggering emotion. I grab for his arms and pull him back against me, into my lap where we kneel on our bed. He drops his head back against my shoulder, panting, and kisses my jaw. I wrap my arms around his waist and turn my head to meet his lips. Softly, lightly.

“Okay,” He pants against my mouth, after a long moment. I tighten my grip around him—pinning his arms to his sides—lean us forward slightly and pull back my hips. When I roll them forward, pushing slowly back in, we both cry out, a bit dazed by the intensity of this. I press my mouth to the top of his spine, then pull back again, beginning a steady rhythm of long, sharp thrusts.

John’s head drops forward and he’s panting heavily, shouting with every snap of my hips. I’m already tipping over the edge, losing myself and quickening my pace as my entire body trembles, shakes. I drive up into him, arms still clutching him against me, holding us both upright. I slide a hand down to grip his erection, firmly stroke his shaft in time with my increasingly frenzied thrusts.

John cries out when he comes, shouting my name, and we fall forward into the soft linen below. I’m completely gone—drilling furiously into his body—over and over as I sob and moan against his neck. He calls out again and again as I hump him forcefully, clinging to him tightly as I drown in a sea of lust and lechery. I feel the pleasure building dangerously with each wild thrust—and when my body goes still, my cries echo through our room as I violently erupt deep inside him. My hips slam upward once, twice, again, again—emptying me out, filling him up. I melt into him completely, covering his body where he lies beneath me—and we slowly sink into a deadened daze.

✹

I startle myself back to consciousness with a sudden burst of panic. It takes me a moment to regain my bearings—still slumped atop John, arms pinned beneath him, my now soft cock has slipped out of his body. Oh, _ God— _I completely lost control. What if I hurt him? A surge of dread rises up into my gut. I’d never let myself go so completely before. I open my eyes. John is dozing, breathing steadily below me. I slide off of him to lie at his side—propped up on one arm, I watch him carefully. Run my palm down his spine, then back up, up, brushing through his hair with my fingers. His eyelids flicker open.

“Hello,” He breathes softly, peering up at me with sleepy blue eyes.

“All right?” I ask, hesitantly. He studies my face for a moment, then grins.

“I’d say so, yes,” He rolls toward me, tugs at my arm until we’re lying face to face. Slides his hand around my waist to rest on my back.

“I didn’t—it wasn’t—?”

_ “No,” _ He pulls me closer. Kisses me quick. “It was _ good, _ Sherlock. Bloody brilliant, actually. I’d never seen you like that—never quite so—uninhibited,” I never have been. It’s not that I ever really hold back with him, but this was something else entirely. I’m not sure what to say, so I bring our mouths together again. His kisses are soft, reassuring. He always knows when I need peace of mind.

Eventually I break away to retrieve a flannel and clean us up. John rolls over and I slide up behind him, our bodies slotting together like two halves of a whole. The clock on the bedside table tells us that it’s just after midnight. We have much to do in the morning, so we settle in to sleep. I press my lips to the back of his neck—a now familiar form of goodnight.

John weaves our fingers together where they lie on his stomach. I smile against his skin as we fall contentedly into sleep.

✹

My eyes fly open abruptly as John climbs on top of me—his favourite way to wake me when he’s excited about something—or when he wants to get laid. I squint up at him, the morning light accosting my eyes. He’s beaming down at me, straddling my hips, hands firmly planted on my chest.

“Wake _ up _,” He says determinedly. I feign annoyance at his enthusiasm—groan dramatically and close my eyes. He shifts his hips—a strategic move—stirring my wearied cock back to life. I try to ignore him, ordering my mind back into the depths of sleep, but I’m distracted by his persistent grind. When I crack an eye open to glare up at him, he grins. Rolls his hips forward, back. Playing dirty. Leans down, down, to whisper seductively in my ear, “Happy Christmas.”

I roll out from under him and sprint to the loo, intending to lock him out and take first shower. He catches me before I’ve even got the door shut, hands on my waist as he backs me up against the tiled wall. We kiss fiercely, stark naked, fingers roaming across flesh. Step under the hot spray and come together with practiced hands. By the time we step out, there’s a genuine grin plastered across my face—Happy Christmas, indeed. 

I stand at the mirror, fastening the final button on the deep green shirt my parents had gifted me upon my return. John is piling our destroyed bed linens into a laundry basket, tugging a clean set out of a dresser drawer. As he spreads the fitted sheet out over the mattress, I wrap my arms around him, running my palms down the front of his burgundy Christmas jumper and pressing my lips to his temple. “I love you,” I say. Because I do. He drops the sheet and turns in my arms—leaning into the embrace, cheek resting against my chest. We’ve had many quiet moments like this in the past four weeks—checking in, reassuring, reminding each other that we’re all right. I need these moments. I treasure them.

I start a pot of coffee while John fries up eggs and sausages. We hurriedly eat breakfast, discussing all that we have to do today to prepare for our guests. John and Mrs. Hudson decorated the flat on Monday, while I was at my session with Joel. When I returned, I was struck a bit dumb by their festive display, but the holiday cheer is undeniable. White fairy lights shine in the windows at all hours of the day, pine boughs line the mantel, a large wreath graces our door. And naturally, they’ve placed mistletoe just inside—forcing all who enter to pass beneath. In the two days since it appeared, John has dragged me over and snogged me senseless no less than seventeen times.

We’ve made our guests promise not to bring gifts—and we’ve assured each other that we won’t be buying anything either. It was John’s idiotic idea, and I agreed because he forced me to. I won’t be keeping my promise—I had already purchased his gift nearly a month ago. I don’t need anything from him, he’s already given me everything.

✹

We spent Monday afternoon and most of yesterday in Penarth with my parents. My mother feigned devastation when we’d told her we’re spending Christmas in London, so we compromised. It was a fairly tedious trip, but they were thrilled—and I think John was as well. Mummy had taken a liking to his jumpers the last time we visited, and she gifted him the one that he’s wearing today. A tasteful wool Fair Isle in two shades of burgundy. She gifted me the deed to our family home in Yorkshire, but I’ve yet to tell John. _ For when you tire of city life, _ she’d said. _ You two can settle down there someday. _ I can still hardly believe it. It’s true that they rarely leave their cottage in Wales these days, and my childhood home sits empty—but it’s an extremely generous gift, and I’m quite touched to be on the receiving end of such a sentimental bequest. I’ve no idea what John will think of it, though. He’s already uncomfortable with the concept of family money, and has yet to accept that he’s a part of ours. To be handed the deed to a Georgian cottage in North Yorkshire is going to be quite a shock.

Mycroft didn’t make an appearance this time. In fact, he’s been mysteriously absent for the past couple of weeks, though he claims he’ll be in attendance tonight. We’ve made an effort to see each other more, and have been trying to find some common ground. We had him over for dinner once in the first week of December. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant. He spoke of his recent work with the South African government—what little he could actually tell us—and we told John stories of our childhood adventures, before things had gone sour between us. He’d asked us if we’d be interested in taking cases again, and we told him of our quest for peace of mind. Mycroft is aware of my (now officially diagnosed) PTSD and has refrained from asking for any hands-on assistance. Things have gotten marginally better, but I need more time. I’d told him as much, and he was understanding—he always seems to be understanding these days. We did not speak of illness, of uncertainty, of untimely ends. I’ve learned that there’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on what we cannot control.

We’ve decided to go traditional with dinner tonight. We’re roasting a(n enormous) turkey, and serving all of the holiday standards. John has also insisted on making pigs in blankets (ridiculous), and Mrs. Hudson is bringing Christmas pudding and mince pies. We’ll have a full house—Lestrade will be joining us, as well as Molly and her new fiancé, who we’ve yet to meet. Harry is coming, too, and John has been worrying himself sick over the presence of alcohol. She’s nearly five weeks sober, and he doesn’t want to tempt her. She’s been spending quite a bit of time at the flat as of late—it’s honestly been nice having her around. She’s found new employment at a café and has been doing quite well, all things considered. I want to believe that she’ll be perfectly fine tonight, but I suppose only time will tell.

I’m pulled back to the present by John’s hand on my back. I’m standing at the worktop, knife in hand, half-chopped parsnips in front of me. I glance over at him and smile. He’s wearing a bright red apron—God only knows where that came from—and he looks like a picture of cosy domesticity.

“Turkey’s in. Turns out it takes about four bloody hours, so the timing should be right,” We’re eating around three—an early meal, as Molly is spending the evening with her fiancé’s family in Croydon. John leans against the worktop next to me. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. Thank you for this.”

I’m glad, too. I’ve never been one to make a fuss over Christmas, but this year I’ve so much to be grateful for. I can’t even begin to deny that I’m looking forward to it. “Let’s make it a tradition,” I say.

✹

Harry and Lestrade both show up just before two. When we open the door, they’re both awkwardly fidgeting at the top of the stairs, standing a careful metre apart. They haven’t had occasion to meet before now, so John laughs at the sight of them and makes introductions. Despite our explicit orders to not bring gifts, Lestrade has in his hands a nice bottle of scotch, and Harry is clutching a small, hastily wrapped package. I roll my eyes and take their offerings when they thrust them into my hands.

I’m in the kitchen when Molly arrives. John gets the door. I hear them exchange pleasant greetings—one voice I don’t recognize—clearly the fiancé. I finish pouring the wine and seltzer that I was fetching for Lestrade and Harry, respectively, when John strides in looking amused.

“Sherlock, come meet Tom,” He’s got a look on his face. I narrow my eyes. His grin widens. “No really, he’s _ lovely.” _ What are you on about, John? I grab the drinks and head into the living room.

Just inside the door is Molly, chatting cheerfully with Lestrade as she shrugs off her coat. And beside her, a man of precisely my height, wearing precisely my coat, and sporting a scarf that I wouldn’t wear in a thousand years. John has sidled over to my side, grinning up at me. I see, John. Very clever. I roll my eyes and opt to say nothing at all. He laughs maniacally, clearly overcome with glee. Idiot.

When John stops wheezing and clutching his stomach, he goes down to help Mrs. Hudson carry her baked goods up the stairs. She’s outdone herself this time, making enough mince pies to feed an army, as well as a perfect hemisphere of Christmas pudding. Now we all sit with drinks in hand, chatting easily about Molly’s engagement and the plans they’ve made so far for the wedding. I wonder if it’s odd for John to talk about this. I wonder, sometimes, if he feels any sort of loss when he thinks of his wedding that never was.

It’s nearly half two when the door swings open, revealing Mycroft—two perfectly wrapped presents in hand. “Say nothing,” He says in lieu of a greeting. Strides into the flat. “Open them later,” He sets the gifts on the mantle and glances around the room. “Happy Christmas,” He adds.

Everyone mumbles their greetings before resuming the conversation that had skittered to a halt when my brother walked in. I nod toward the kitchen and he follows me in, accepting the glass of wine I pour for him.

“How’ve you been?” I ask. This something we do now. Inquire about one another’s wellbeing. 

“Fine,” He nods. I hope that it’s true. “And you? I trust you and John had a nice time with our parents?”

I shrug. “It was nice. They adore John, as you know. And I’ve suddenly found myself the owner of our childhood home, which I’m sure you’re also aware of,” Another nod. “We expected you to make an appearance.”

“I’ve been abroad,” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. I know better.

We join everyone else in the living room, hopping into their discussion of Lestrade’s latest murder. John and I have decided not to work with the Met for the time being. I know that no good will come of it—although we do get the occasional text from Lestrade, begging us to read over the files. We do, and we’ve helped him solve a few from a distance. We’ve stayed busy with client cases—tracking down stolen heirlooms and missing family members, carefully sidestepping anything that involves considerable risk. It’s been good. _ We’ve _ been good. I haven’t had a single panic episode since the Jones debacle, and my nightmares are becoming less frequent—though I do still wake John up with one at least once a week. I credit Joel with much of my progress. In just five sessions, he’s begun to shift my perspective on what’s happened to me, as well as give me a modicum of confidence back. I’m well aware that I’ve a long way to go, but it feels as though the foundation has been laid. Everything else has been John. He’s been an incredible source of support—often foreseeing my concerns and cutting them off with reassurances before I can get lost in my head. He’s continued to be everything I could possibly want in a partner, and I continue to wait for the day he sees that he’s too good for me.

I realize I’ve slipped away when I feel a soft pressure on my shoulder. I look up to see Molly hovering hesitantly by my chair, pulling her hand back the moment our eyes meet. “Hello,” She says quietly. “All right?” 

I smile. “All right,” A nod. “Tom seems nice,” Her face immediately turns bright red. 

“Yes, well. He isn’t a sociopath. So there’s that.”

“That’s quite a step up for you, then, isn’t it?” She’s giggling, shaking her head.

“Sherlock—things are good, yeah? They seem to be good,” She peers down at me, waiting expectantly for a response. I watch her for a moment. She actually wants to know.

“Better than I knew they could be,” I say. We share a smile.

✹

Dinner is served. We have pushed two tables together, all cramming around them in mismatched chairs. Molly and Tom brought homemade Christmas crackers with them, so we pop them open before we eat. The table erupts with laughter over and over again as paper crowns, ridiculous toys and completely nonsensical jokes are revealed. Mrs. Hudson places a purple crown on Mycroft’s reluctant head and then bursts into a fit of giggles. Harry asks me what you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire. I roll my eyes, then raise an eyebrow when Lestrade, a too-small yellow crown perched on his grey mop of hair, shouts, “Frostbite!” across the table, sloshing his wine in his haste to answer. Molly laughs and blows a pink plastic whistle at him.

We eat. The atmosphere remains lively, everyone chatting animatedly and shouting across the table to pass the potatoes. It’s mesmerising. I look around at the people I’ve chosen as my family (and one who was assigned at birth) and think that my life feels full, nearly completely whole. When my eyes land on my brother, sitting on my left, he’s watching me. The look in his eyes and the slight smile on his face say _ look at this life you’ve found yourself in—who would have guessed someone like us could have this? _

_ I know, _I think, as I look steadily back at him. He understands why I’m constantly surprised by the situations I find myself in now. We grew up feeling certain that this sort of thing was not for us. That we could never have this. And we never did. When John first entered my life and wrapped his roots around my heart, Mycroft could hardly believe it—and neither of us could have ever guessed it would evolve into this. I wish that he could have found someone who really sees him. I wonder if he’s ever come close. Perhaps it’s not too late.

I glance over at John, sitting directly to my right, and watch him laughing with Harry and Molly, wildly gesturing with his hands as he tells them of one of our more eccentric clients and her lost tiara. They’re both snorting with laughter, completely engrossed in his charming narrative. He’s magnetic. I smile and slide my hand across his shoulders. He turns to me, beaming, then leans against my side and continues his saga.

After dinner, Molly and Tom must set off for Croydon.. As we stand at the door saying our goodbyes, Molly kisses my cheek, whispers in my ear. “I’m so happy for you,” She says. “You deserve this, you know,” I pull back to stare at her, unsure how to respond. I don’t agree, but I’ve been working on trying to. I don’t believe that anyone deserves John, least of all me, but I am becoming more comfortable with the fact that he’s chosen me nevertheless.

“Thank you,” I respond. “For everything,” She knows what I mean. She knows the role that she played in preserving John’s life and allowing me to disappear when I needed to. A true friend and ally, and I’d likely have none of this without her. We share a final smile before she flounces out the door, dragging Tom along behind her.

When I turn back to the rest of our guests, John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are standing by the fire, chewing on mince pies and chatting comfortably. Mycroft and Harry, I’m surprised to find, are deep in conversation on the couch. Suspicious. Curiosity winning out, I cautiously approach them and perch on the coffee table. They both glance over at me simultaneously. “All right?” Harry asks with a grin.

My eyes flicker between them, narrowing slightly. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Mycroft huffs. “We’re family now. We were discussing exactly that.” Odd. But true, I suppose.

“We were planning our matching outfits for the inevitable wedding. Surely Myc and I will be best men?” I roll my eyes. Not about to discuss a fictional wedding with a very smug looking Harry on Christmas.

“Carry on, then,” I say, waving a hand to dismiss their inanity as I stand to join the others. I try not to think about marrying John. If I’m being completely honest with myself, it’s because I desperately want to, and I can hardly stand the potent joy that courses through me at the thought. John has said that it’s too soon after Mary, and I won’t be bringing it up, for fear of overwhelming him. So I try not to think about it.

When I approach the others, John automatically wraps an arm around my waist, bringing me into their circle. Mrs. Hudson watches this casually affectionate gesture and grins up at me. She still hasn’t quite calmed down about our relationship—providing a steady stream of smug smiles and inappropriate questions each time I see her. I wonder if she’s asked John which of us bottoms, or if it’s only me who’s had the privilege of stammering through a response to that particular question. She never gets answers, but she keeps on asking. Still, it’s nice to be so wholly accepted, I suppose. She only wants the best for us.

Lestrade is rambling on about a case we distantly assisted with last week. He had texted John a series of crime scene photos, asking for his medical opinion on various wounds found on the body. The only one that had ended up mattering was the hatchet to the throat, leading him straight to her woodsman ex-boyfriend. Bit obvious, really. Idiotic choice of weapon, considering. Not many smooth criminals in England these days, it seems. Apparently they’ve finally tracked down his cabin in West Sussex and brought him in. I can’t muster any real excitement over this news. Less thrilled by murder than I used to be.

Mycroft is next to leave. Slips out at half six with a handshake and a _ Happy Christmas. _ He looks tired. He always looks tired. The rest of us open another bottle of wine (another seltzer for Harry) and play a card game, eloquently named _ Egyptian Ratscrew, _ involving quite a lot of slapping the deck. Mrs. Hudson’s idea. She plays with her sister. It ends up being actually quite fun _ . _ We laugh and laugh.

Around eight, Lestrade walks Mrs. Hudson down to her flat on his way out. They thank us for a lovely time, and we hug them tightly when they go. Harry lingers. She’s retrieved the small wrapped package she’d brought with her from where I’d set it on the mantle. She hands it to John. “Go on, then.”

He furrows his brow. “Harry—”

“I didn’t spend a penny,” She says quickly. “Just open it.”

He does. Beneath the crinkled wrapping paper is a simple wooden box. “Oh,” He says, clearly recognizing it. When he flips open the lid, I see that it’s filled with tattered and stained index cards, each covered in the same tidy, looping handwriting. “Mum’s recipes.”

“I thought you should have them. God knows I don’t cook—couldn’t if I wanted to. Not like she could. But you two have—” She waves her hand toward the kitchen. “—more ambition. And skill.” She smiles. John looks near tears. His eyes have gone a bit watery as he hugs her and whispers his thanks. “Love you, boys,” She says, grabbing her coat and opening the door. “Thank you for today. Happy Christmas,” And she strides out into the night.

✹

After staring at one another for a long moment in our suddenly silent flat, John takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. He sits, tugging me down until my head is in his lap, and immediately begins carding his fingers through my hair. I look up at him, recalling our first kiss. Lying in precisely this position and wondering what would happen next—now we do this often, and I think of it every time. It hasn’t even been two months, but in moments like this, it feels like we’ve been together for several lifetimes. Our eyes are locked, studying each other, as we tend to do. He leans down and presses his lips lightly to mine. “I have something for you,” He says quietly.

“You broke your promise, then?” I say, smiling at the thought of his idiotic _ no gifts _ rule. None of our guests abided by it, and neither did I. He kisses me again.

“I didn’t actually _ buy _ anything,” Reaches behind the cushion to his right. He hands me a stack of six sealed standard white envelopes, all a bit rough around the edges. Each of them dated, but otherwise unmarked. “These already belong to you, anyway,” What does that mean? I don’t recognize them. I look closer at the dates. All during my time away. I glance back up at John.

“Shall I open them?” Not entirely sure what is going on here. He nods, looking a bit wary. I tear open the envelope dated _ 30th of June, 2011. _ When I unfold the paper within, my heart sinks. Letters. Written to me. Oh, John. I begin to read.

  


_ Sherlock, _

_ Two weeks ago, I watched you die. I should probably feel like an idiot writing a letter to a dead man, but you’re still real to me. The words come easily. And I have a lot to say. _

_ I went back to Ella last week. You’d probably tell me it’s a waste of time. It probably is. But my world is so empty without you, I don’t know what else to do. She asked me if there was anything I wanted to say to you...anything I never got to say while you were here. I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t say any of it out loud. It was her idea to write to you, so here I am. Putting pen to paper, spilling my soul to a ghost. _

_ This is difficult. I can’t help but feel that you might read this someday. If I write it down, I fear that you’ll find it and know everything I’ve hidden away. Maybe you’ll go through my room and find this letter, like you found everything else I ever tried to hide. But, no. You won’t. You’re dead. And it won’t be my room for much longer anyway, I’m moving out next week. Staying with Harry for awhile, until I find something that doesn’t remind me of you every second of every day. _

_ And anyway, I want you to know. It’s not something I should have hidden in the first place. _

_ Here it is: I loved you. God, it hurts to say it now. I loved you, why didn’t I ever tell you? You were my best friend...the best friend I’ve ever had, full stop. You jumped off that roof never knowing how much you were loved. I’ll never stop regretting that day. I should have stayed. I should have seen that you were hurting. I should have told you then. I never stopped believing in you. I could have told you that. I did everything wrong, and now it’s all I can think about. _

_ I’m so sorry. For everything, for letting you down. I hope that somehow you know. Sometimes I think I can still feel your presence, so maybe somehow you do. I miss you. I love you. I’ll write again soon. _

_ John _

* * *

  


_ Sherlock, _

_ It’s been 41 days, and I still haven’t found a way to keep you out of my head. Every night I dream of you. Every morning I wake up and forget that you’re gone. I think about you constantly, and sometimes I feel like I could drown in my regret. I think that eventually, I will. _

_ I’m writing again now to amend what I said in my last letter. As it turns out, it wasn’t the whole truth. I spend a lot of time alone with my thoughts these days, and I’ve come to some pretty devastating conclusions. I loved you Sherlock, but that’s not all. I know now that I was in love with you. Completely. Still am, if you want the truth. Wish I knew why it took me so long to admit it to myself. Wish I’d figured it out while you were still around to tell. _

_ We could have had something, I think. Maybe not anything traditional, you being...you. But we could have been happy together. We were happy together. The happiest I’d been in my life. Now I’m just trying to get through each day. Trying to find something to live for. No luck yet. _

_ I wish you were here. I miss you so much. _

_ John _

* * *

  


_ Sherlock, _

_ 67 days. Today was the worst one yet. It was nearly my last. _

_ There’s a bench at Regent’s park that I walk by 0ften. It’s by the lake. I like the view. Today I sat there for nearly half the day, thinking of you. I’ve accepted that I’ll never stop thinking of you. I thought it would fade, with time...the constant flood of memories and regret. Everyone tells me it will. But it hasn’t. It’s only gotten worse. It’s getting harder to live with the pain of it, so today I decided that I no longer would. _

_ But I’m writing to you now...so as you can see, I didn’t go through with it. I thought I had made peace with everything. I thought I was ready to go. But you made a bloody last minute appearance and talked me right out of it. You do that a lot. Make appearances. You’re always there, really. And now my gun is at the bottom of a lake, so there’s no turning back for me now. Looks like I’ve chosen life. Chosen to live, for you. How bloody backwards is that? You threw your life away. But you saved mine. Today, and many times before. _

_ I’m going to try, now. Not to move on...I know that I never really will...but to exist with some sort of purpose again. I’m going back to work at the clinic this Monday. And I’ve found a flat nearby. It’s bland and forgettable. Doesn’t remind me of you at all. _

_ I won’t forget you, Sherlock. I never could. But I won’t be writing for awhile. _

_ Love, _

_ John _

* * *

  


_ Sherlock, _

_ It’s been a year, can you believe it? I hardly can. 365 days, and not much has changed. I spent the anniversary of your untimely demise at home, reading old blog posts and wondering if I’ll ever find anything to fill the void you left behind. Lestrade invited me to the pub, so I met him for a pint. He spoke of the good times, and left out the bit where he doubted you. I don’t blame him for that, really. You always said he was an idiot, and in that moment, he was. He’s been a good friend to me, though. I’ve needed a good friend. And he knows now how wrong he was. _

_ My life is small, these days. I go to work, come home. Rinse and repeat. I still think of you often. Every single day. I still think of what might have been. Still miss you deeply. The pain hasn’t gone away, not at all, but I’ve gotten used to it. It’s become a part of me...you’ve become a part of me. _

_ I wish I had more to tell you, but nothing ever happens to me, without you. I love you, always will. _

_ John _

* * *

  


_ Sherlock, _

_ Nearly two years. 22 months, to be exact. I’m writing now to tell you that I’ve finally found a way to fill my days. I’ve met someone. Her name is Mary. _

_ She’s a nurse at the clinic, and she’s really very nice. She isn’t completely mad, and she doesn’t drag me across rooftops and shout at me to make her tea, but really...she’s very nice. And she likes me. A lot. Which is really the main selling point. _

_ I’ve decided to start posting on the blog again. I haven’t said a word since the day after you died. But now I think I’ll write up some of our old cases that were never posted. I can think of you now without an overwhelming sense of regret. It’ll always be there, but now it’s overshadowed by the good times. Now I mostly think of how much love I have for you, and how you undeniably gave me the best days of my life. _

_ I miss you, as much as ever. _

_ Love, _

_ John _

* * *

  


_ Sherlock, _

_ I dreamt of you last night. Not as common an occurrence as it used to be. I woke up this morning feeling your presence more strongly than I have in years. God, I miss you. _

_ I’m sitting in Mary’s kitchen...well, our kitchen...we’ve been living together for months and this still doesn’t quite feel like home. Anyway, I’m sitting here writing to you because I’ve decided that I need to stop biding my time and try to commit to something. Commit to Mary. I’d never say this to anyone else, but it isn't love, with her. I think that it could be, someday. But I don’t know how to love someone else when I haven’t fallen out of love with you. _

_ I’m about to go visit Mrs. Hudson for the first time in nearly two years. I haven’t been back to Baker Street at all. But since she’s the closest thing I have to a parent, I’m going to tell her that I plan to propose tonight. It’s been half a year with Mary, and that’s enough time. She’s crazy about me, and I like her just fine. I can’t compare everyone to you for the rest of my life. There’s never going to be anyone else like you. _

_ I miss you, I love you. I’ll be thinking of you all day. Would give anything to see you again, even for a single moment...so I could tell you exactly that. _

_ Yours, _

_ John _

✹

I lie sobbing in John’s lap, now—curled up with my tear-streaked face pressed into his lovely burgundy jumper. He’s wrapped his arms around me, holding me as I shake, chest heaving. “Sherlock,” He breathes. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only wanted to show you what you’ve always been to me,” His palm brushes across my back. Up, down. I hadn’t any idea that he had written to me while I was dead. I can _ feel _his sense of loss in his letters. And the last one was written on the day that we found each other again. He’d felt my presence that morning and was thinking of me all day. “I gave these to you so you’d have tangible confirmation of what I’ve always felt for you. I know you doubt your worth sometimes. I wanted you to be able to see for yourself whenever you need to,” I do see. He’s handed me what I would consider definitive proof. He wipes the tears from my cheek with his thumb. “Maybe I should have burned them after all. I almost did.”

I roll back to stare up at him. He looks a bit stricken. He didn’t expect this reaction at all. I’m sorry, John. The tears come easily these days. I reach up and brush my fingers along his jaw. “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say. And I am. He knows what it means to me to have tangible evidence of his affection. I’ve always struggled to wrap my head around emotion, and this is something I can hold in my hands. Hard data. Proof of love. Struck with a sudden idea, I sit up. “Come here,” I say, rising and heading for our bedroom. He follows me in and I immediately drop to my knees and pry open the loose floorboard near the wall. I pull out his stolen journal, now curled and tattered and filthy—clearly read a thousand times—and hand it to him. He carefully pages through, recognition slowly creeping onto his face despite the smudged words and torn pages. He looks up at me, searching for an explanation. “I brought it with me,” I say quietly. “Abroad. I took it from your room on that last day—before we left the flat—before I jumped,” His eyes widen, then drop back down to the abused paper in his hands.

“Case notes,” He whispers. “Shopping lists.”

“A piece of you,” I correct. “Proof of our time together,” He looks down at me, where I still kneel on the floor, his eyes now shining—his mind clearly racing. And then:

He falls to his knees in front of me. “Sherlock—” He breathes. I grab his wrist, can feel his heart beating fast. He weaves our fingers together. “Sherlock—marry me.” This tumbles out of his mouth in a quick exhale and he peers up at me, face open and expectant. I stare back at him. Open my mouth and then close it again. I thought it was too soon? He had been concerned about what people would think, so soon after— “I would have married you the day you came back if I could have—I don’t care what anyone thinks anymore,” He’s gripping my fingers tightly between his. “I love you so much—you make me so happy. Let’s never go through being apart again.”

_ John. _ I pull him closer, press my lips to his forehead, his cheek. “Yes,” I say. Bring our mouths together, kiss him fiercely. “Yes, obviously, yes.”

Our lips meet again and again. The kiss has evolved—has quickly turned predatory—the journal cast aside as we devour each other on our bedroom floor. I push John back, back—yank down his trousers and toss them carelessly aside. I free his cock from his pants and swallow him down, hungry and dissolute. I watch him writhe and squirm as he hardens against my tongue, body beginning to tremble and hips jerking lightly. I pull off quick and reach for the drawer, toss the lube at him, hands scrabbling at my trousers. “Sherlock—” He says, sitting up, eyes wide.

“Fuck me, John,” I breathe, echoing his words from last night. So he does.

With fingers first, as I lean forward, face pressed into the side of our bed. Still half-clothed, we move together, sweat together—John’s slippery digits relentlessly teasing me open as I gradually relax around him. He grabs my waist, bending me over the bed. Hovers above me, hands on my hips, and glides his slick shaft into my body. We’ve done this often enough that the sensation is a familiar one. Filled by him, surrounded by him, I moan into the sheets below. He pulls back slow, and pushes in _ hard _. Fucks me rough, my body jerking forward with every thrust, cock gliding against the bed. I love this, I’ve learned. Love it when he lets go. Hips slamming into me over and over, each thrust sending sparks flying through my body, setting me ablaze—his pelvis marking my flesh with subtle bruises.

Abruptly he pulls out, crawls onto the bed, tugging me along with him. I climb on top and sink down onto his solid shaft. Without hesitation, I begin to move. Rock my hips, slide up, slam down. I lean forward and brace myself, hands on either side of his head. He grabs my nape, pulls me down to kiss me wildly, his hips pumping up into me as we move in tandem.

I’m the first to tumble over the edge. Shouting and gasping his name, I erupt onto his chest, collapsing against him as he continues to drive up into me. He wraps his arms around my body, cock buried deep, and cries out, once, twice, hips jerking as he comes—_ hard _—inside me. I let myself melt against him, both of us gradually drifting away—minds floating, weightless, but anchored in each other’s arms.

✹

  
“Sherlock,” John’s lips graze my ear as he dazedly whispers my name, coaxing me back to reality. “All right?” I am all right. I am more than all right. John and I are _ engaged _ . The only man I’ve ever loved is now my _ fiancé. _ These are not words I had ever expected to be a part of my life. Not really. But John has asked me to be his _ husband. _ Warmth floods through my spent body at the thought of referring to him as my husband. Mine. Forever. I turn my head and press my lips to his neck. Kiss his salty flesh. He moans quietly beneath my tongue. Scrape the skin with my teeth, lightly suck a bruise. Mark him as my own. Soon I will do so with a ring.

I brush my fingers through his hair, then push myself up, hovering over him. He stares up at me. “John,” I say, quietly. “Let’s go to Yorkshire tomorrow.” A puzzled expression creeps onto his face. “As it turns out, we own property there. We ought to go examine the state of it.”

Wide eyes and a stunned silence follow my brief explanation of my parents’ gift to us. I drop down next to him, and he immediately rolls over to face me. “Your childhood home?” He whispers, eventually. I nod, snake an arm around his waist. “I can’t wait to see where you grew up,” Is all he has to say on the matter. We plan to go tomorrow afternoon and stay for two nights. I’m a bit nervous to show him—the place doesn’t hold many happy memories for me. It represents years of loneliness and isolation. Still, it’s a lovely, and rather grand, cottage—and we can make it our own. Somewhere we can find some quiet once our life in London becomes chaos once more.

“There’s something else,” I say, watching his brow furrow slightly. I’ve put this off, but now we’re in the final hours of Christmas, and it’s time I inform him of his gift. It’s for me, too, really. For the both of us. “I’d like to travel with you, John. Outside of England. I thought Morocco, first. Marrakech,” His eyes widen again, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “End of January. Two weeks there.”

A wide grin, now. “You broke your bloody promise, too,” He runs the pads of his fingers over my shoulder, down my back.

“Yes, well, you’d never have shut up if I hadn’t agreed,” He digs his fingernails into my skin slightly, scowls as he laughs. Always a contradiction, my John. “And anyway, I purchased the tickets weeks ago.”

“Why Morocco?”

I shrug a shoulder. “I’ve never been. Somewhere new—together—sounds rather appealing. Don’t you think?” He nods, shuffles closer. I pull him in, tuck his head under my chin. “I’ve always traveled alone,” I add, quietly. His grip tightens around my waist, soft lips against my chest.

We lie together, as we do every night, now—as I hope we will every night for the rest of our lives—and let sleep take us.

✹

I wake up to an empty bed. A rare occurrence—John is nearly always there. Thrown off by his absence, I rise, grabbing a dressing gown on my way out the door. The flat smells of coffee and bacon, and I find John standing in front of the stove, scrambling eggs in a frying pan. I walk up behind him and envelop him in my arms. “Hi,” He says, leaning back against my chest as I press my lips to his temple. 

“Hello,” I rumble, turning toward the table, where John has set the two neatly wrapped presents Mycroft had left on the mantle last night. “I wonder what my brother has brought us this year. Perhaps a matching set of our very own umbrellas?” John turns to me and grins.

“Yes those small, square boxes surely contain a set of umbrellas. Brilliant as ever,” I smirk and unceremoniously tear the paper off of the first, nearly weightless box—lift the lid to find two British passports, one for each of us. I raise my eyebrows, genuinely pleased. The process can take weeks—mine was lost ages ago (although I have several under various aliases), and John’s is expired. I had planned on calling in another favor with Mycroft anyway. Of course he already knows that we’ve planned a trip abroad. He always knows.

The second box is quite heavy, and I have a pretty good idea of what’s inside. “This one’s for you, I think,” I slide the box across the table as John sets down two plates. He gives me a questioning look, but picks it up, flips it over. Both boxes were unmarked.

“You know what it is, then?” He begins to carefully unwrap the package, setting the paper on the worktop. I nod. I thought my brother might take it upon himself to do this. Surprised that it took him this long, really. John holds in his hands a black plastic box. “Oh, God. Wow, Mycroft,” He breathes—unlatches it and flips open the lid. Inside is a Sig Sauer P226—John’s gun. But this one has never seen the bottom of a lake. The box also contains all necessary certifications for him to legally own the firearm. I’m not convinced that having a record of ownership is the best idea for us, but I suppose Mycroft is thinking of a time when he’ll no longer be there to bail us out. My heart sinks, a bit. Mrs. Hudson once said that her sister is a pain in her arse, but she’ll miss her when she’s gone. I know that will be true for me as well. I’ve grown to care for my brother.

A small card falls out of the folded stack of paperwork. _ To assist you in your quest for peace of mind, _ it reads. He knows that we won’t truly feel safe as long as we remain unarmed. This weapon was once like an extension of John’s body. It had served him well in the army, and he had refused to part with it after—laws be damned. It saved my life on our very first evening together, and has kept us safe many times since. Still, he will no doubt insist on spending time at a firing range before we jump back into a life of action. John is nothing if not responsible. Always was. One of us had to be.

I send a quick text to Mycroft. _ Thank you. SH _—He won’t respond, he doesn’t need to. He knows what I mean—what this means for us. He’s entrusting John with my wellbeing, now. Always has, to some extent.

✹

We sit side by side on our train, now—waiting to head off for Yorkshire. We’ve packed for two nights, planning to stay at the cottage and explore my old stomping grounds. I am both dreading and looking forward to showing John the places where I spent my youth. London is my true home, but Yorkshire and the cottage still hold a piece of my heart—albeit a small one. He’s buzzing with excitement, never having been there. He cannot believe that we’ve been given a cottage in the country—that my family has chosen to bestow a place of such sentiment upon us. I’m still fairly surprised myself. 

“You told me that you wanted to retire in the country with me someday, you know. Did you have this place in mind, then?” Did I? Perhaps I did. What I had in mind at that point in time was another decade or two of the work and our life at 221B—followed by quiet and peace, once we’ve tired of it. Now, it seems, we can have it all simultaneously. We can have the action once we’re ready for it, and the quiet domesticity whenever we need it. And we can have each other, for the rest of our lives. 

Things have been gradually falling into place for us, in ways that I never could have anticipated. Each day feels like progress, each moment in his presence a gift. “All I had in mind was a lifetime with you,” I respond. It’s the truth. It really doesn’t matter where we end up. He takes my hand, looks at me intently, and instantly I’m lost in eyes of deep blue. _ You have me, _ they say. _ I’m yours. _ I smile.

  
The train pulls away from the station and it feels as if we’re being launched into a future unknown—hand in hand, eyes locked and hearts full. John leans against me, rests his head on my shoulder. _ I love him, _ I think. _ He’s perfect. _ I know now that I’ll be ready to face whatever will come. Letting my cheek rest against his silver-gold hair, I’m as content as I’ve ever been. Calm. Quiet. I close my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit, it's over. Thanks for taking the time to read this nonsense.
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IsSpAOD6K8) is the Talking Heads song that the story is named after. You know it. Everyone does. I used lyrics from the song throughout.
> 
> _(Letting the days go by / Same as it ever was / How did I get here?)_
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0zAKbx01rSg) Monika song got a lot of play while I was writing this. It brings up feelings I've had throughout my life of deep human connection and profound loss. It helped me to imagine what both of these characters would have gone through, after finally finding someone who really sees them and then losing them in such a traumatic way. And then, somehow, finding them again.
> 
> _(I hear your voice, in every little memory)_
> 
> And [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL95OJKTMG4MhXcpqSXfjeCBLIbF3qOs0e) is a YouTube playlist of songs that put me in that mindset, if anyone feels like crying today. They aren't all heartbreaking, some are more hopeful. Most of them are pretty relevant to the John/Sherlock dynamic. The genres are all over the damn place, as they're all songs that were important to me at different times in life. Listened to them all while writing this.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who made it to the end! I appreciate the support/comments/insight on this strange story of mine.


End file.
